


Burdensome Stories

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [118]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Chapters unrelated from each other, Collection of WIPs, Complicated Relationships, Implied Relationships, M/M, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 31,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Lots of things happen within the Constant.Aka - The wips that never made it to the finish line.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [118]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Gears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in September of last year.

William followed the sound of sparks and turning gears and the slow high shriek of metal scraping against metal.

He knew it was probably a bad idea, wandering off into the forest like this, the others have told him countless times that unknown sounds in unknown areas were better handled with a sense of caution than curiosity, but he had his pack and a few torches and one of those small knives that one warrior like lady had given him, so even without something as simple as a spear he was sure he'd be fine.

He could always run away, if it turned out to be something bad. From what he remembered, the only things that sounded of metal gnashing together and the bursts of mini explosives were the oddly musical automatons that patrolled certain carpeted places of marble and statues, Wilsons alchemy engine when it started to rain or when the man had his hands tangled in its wire insides, and Wx78.

Of these things, William has not had a close encounter with the hostile automatons as of yet, and one of the children, the spider like child, they had said that it was easy to outrun all but one of them, and that just required not running in a straight line.

Which, William was fairly versed in doing that. It's been awhile, but he still remembered his early days in the States and making the mistake of doing magic tricks to far off, semi isolated towns all on his lonesome. 

Some people just never seemed to get past the dark ages, was all.

The scraping metal and low sparks only got louder as William circled around the trees, wandered and tried to avoid stepping into the larger underbrush, still sopping wet from the last rain. His backpack had one of the spare umbrellas stuffed inside, the one with the fewest holes if he remembered what Wilson had told him when he was handing it over, and the reminder of watching out for lightening still seemed a bit odd, something to do with it following you if you were too cocky out in the rain? It didn't make much sense, but then Wilson didn't make much sense either, and neither did this dream like place.

Or nightmarish, actually. William remembered the first encounter he ever had with the hounds, and it made him rub his left arm with a shiver, the faintest flash of half remembered pain from that night. So much blood, so much violence, and the pain in the end when he had straightened up gasping, adrenaline fizzling out and leaving him to collapse to the dirt and the dark of night-

They all had been kind, William reminded himself, another shiver as something sparked up ahead and he hiked around a particularly thick pine tree. His arm had been ravaged and he had been horrified and a bit uncooperative afterwards, but Wilson had been the first one he had been able to properly see and identify as safety and the bandages were secure and it had healed faster than William had thought something torn apart by jagged canine teeth could ever mend.

It was only later that he learned anything of what he had done to the hound that bit him, and William forcefully turned his thoughts away from thinking of it, of _that_ , pulled his hand away from his arm and forced himself to take a steady even breath of the humid air.

The sounds were just ahead, and it was enough distraction to take his mind away from the recent past. He had to be alert right now, or whatever was ahead might just hurt him more.

He was being a fool, a clumsy daft fool, coming out here alone and then wandering off from what chore he was supposed to be doing to investigate strange sounds again, but the newly grown in grasses and saplings weren't going anywhere and it was still morning so-

So he had the time to dilly dally. 

Alone and without a spear in the middle of a forest that probably had those huge, nasty looking spiders, but he hasn't seen any silk yet and the mean automatons he's only seen at a distance and maybe William just wanted a spare moment of distraction to take his mind off things-

Peeking his head around the pine tree and blinking a bit at the wash of sunlight that swept over the ahead clearing, William had to squint moment and fumble with his glasses as light reflected off metal and almost blinded him. Not harsh enough to have him stumbling backwards, but the floating afterimage stuck to his vision for a few moments more as he realized what he was actually seeing.

The large automaton, having identified themself as Wx78 to William the first time he had met them, was sitting in the middle of the clearing atop the scraggy waterlogged grasses and stringy weeds. Sparks and smoke came out in puffs and huffs from the cracks in their bronze metal plating, the spinning gears and wires of their insides exposed from the open hinged door of their chest, but that didn't seem to be the main issue the robot was dealing with.

It was the vines and thorns that have started sprouting and crawling all over their metal body that seemed to be the issue. The plant looked almost to be a living animal in how it moved, slipped and tangled and only grew thicker and thicker no matter how much the robot tore it apart and ripped it from their metal insides. 

Flowers even started to bloom, pale buds unfurling into heavy red roses, uncoiling from their insides and tangling to their inner framework, and the automaton hissed up a thick cloud of steam and even darker black smoke, followed by the sounds of popping dislocated gears and metal bits and pieces even as their hands continued to grip and pull and tear the forming plant apart.

The plant was rooted into the ground, coiled over the ensnared robot, yet almost seemed to have sprouted into their very core, and William bit his lip, quickly looked around a moment with the faintest grace of panic in his chest before he hurriedly hopped out from behind the tree and made his way over to the automaton.

He may not have known them for long, but it was still obvious enough that they were in trouble and alone in the middle of the woods and he can't exactly just _walk_ away after seeing Wx78 struggle against the roses. Something was wrong and he can't just _leave._

"Um, are you alright?" 

His voice made the automaton jerk their head up, sway and wobble as the roots and vines withered and tore into their metal barrel chest, and William hovered a moment, hands out and not really knowing if he should be doing something to help, or even _how-_

"WHAT DO YOU WANT."

Not a question, a statement made in a dull, toneless voice, curbed and clipped in such an inhuman way that made him rather unnerved, a shiver up his spine, but William forced himself to not show his unease. 

"I, uh, I heard you while I was walking by?" And now his own words made the curl of a question, made his uneasy almost obnoxiously apparent, shoulders hunching as he bore the brunt of the automatons dark, empty stare. It made him nervous, not having anything to go off of when speaking to them, no body language or expressions or _anything_ he could try to interpret and respond correctly to, but Wx78 did not seem to be the most complex of characters William has been acquainted with around these parts so making the attempt to wing it was his best option so far. "I thought, well, you look like you need some help? Maybe?"

Not as if he's ever been successful, winging it, but he had to at least try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original plot idea - William talks about anger issues left over from Maxwell and Throne memories with Wx78. Things end semi well.


	2. A real game changer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in November of 2019

It was quiet, here. Very quiet.

His footsteps echoed over the marble, sheets of it with barren sand and packed earth keeping it all together, the faintest of breezes that faded into stagnant, dusty air, and Wilson had no idea how he got here.

Well, no, that was wrong, but fiddling with a machine that _wasn't_ meant to be a portal that in fact did end up being one was not really a plausible explanation. 

It was completely silent, and there was no sun high in the sky, only vacantly peering low at the horizon, bronze and crimson bright dusk, and the air stuck an odd film to his tongue and _Wilson had no idea where he was._

He hadn't even flipped a switch. No hit button, no sparking wires or twisting gears, only some machinery he'd been modifying, the divining staff pulled apart and then slowly, painstakingly pieced together in a much different, possibly more useful form, and while the blueprints in his head floated there from his dreams Wilson _knew_ it wasn't a portal. He hadn't been building a portal, and it was not supposed to function as one, and yet…

Goosebumps rose over his skin, a cold shiver up his spine as Wilson rubbed his arms, mindful of his dull claws. His skin still tingled, the feeling of all those shadows slithered all about him, wrapping his arms tight to his body and circling, noosing about his neck, and it made him squint his face and try to shake off the memory of being grabbed, held, _dragged_ away. He couldn't dwell on that right now, no matter how much it nagged at his brain, muddling the faintest of pulsing shadow fog in his peripheral vision.

He was far from his camp, in the middle of a deserted landscape, and it was dusk. Night should fall soon.

As he looked to the setting sun, slow, almost too slow as it drifted, in the back of his mind Wilson wondered if it would even finish its descent. 

It almost looked as if it wasn't even _moving._

Still, he can't just stand around. He had to get back to camp, and hope nothing had happened in his absence. That place now had seasons worth of his work and he didn't want to return to a destroyed mess of all that he worked so hard upon.

Not to mention the few companions he had back there; Chester had been lying next to the empty firepit, content with bone eye in paws, and the red bird he had for all too long caged up needed more attention than it used to. It hasn't lived as long as him yet, Wilson was pretty sure of that, but it sat back on its hocks at the bottom of the cage more often and didn't even want to peck his palms bloody all the time.

He needed to get back, make sure everything was in good order.

_That was_ , a vaguely thought voice in the back of his mind whispered, _if it was even possible for him to leave this place._

That made him turn away from the setting sun, curl his hands into fists, and start to walk. He had to focus on the task at hand, and that was to find a way back.

The crashing of waves brought him away from where he had first awoke, a salty spray in the air as Wilson treaded a cliff, followed the coastline. No beaches in sight, just massive cliffs and the waters below crashing down upon the mess of rocks and spires scattered about, and Wilson narrowed his eyes and felt the vaguest of dizziness grace him as he watched.

If he looked too long, it was almost as if the cliffs themselves were moving, not the waves.

Backing up a bit, Wilson trailed the edge for a little longer, hoping that perhaps there was a bridge, a way off, either back to his camp or to a new, better land. There were only stumps of dead trees here, spiky twiggy things looking more stick than log, and bleached dry brambles and thorns scrawled all about. No grasses, no flowers, nothing else among the living in sight.

Every once in awhile Wilson passed the degraded, crumbling ruins of marble pillars. He tried to not look at them too much; they pricked at his mind, brought forth the image of the inner portal, the many worlds and beyond.

He was still working on that, after all. Only two worlds he's passed before something got to him, usually the cold, and he's had more than enough of that smirking, hissingly deep voiced cackle he's heard all too many times.

Taking a well deserved break from that horrid machine, and the more horrible puppet master, was what Wilson had been trying to accomplish, with a bit of tinkering to ease the nerves and hopefully make his life easier.

Wilson shivered as a cold wind blew in from the sea far below, footsteps too loud, too sharp against the dirt crusted marble. Looks as if even trying to relax might end up killing him.

Finally something else seemed to poke out from the ever scaling cliffs - a rock formation, risen high and smoothened by the salty sea, and as Wilson approached he knew the name of it.

A landbridge, and for a moment he almost felt relief.

But just as he stepped upon it, a sturdy chunk of earthen mass, Wilson squinted ahead in the gloom of eternal dusk and saw something that made all his hopes crash right back down.

Out ahead of him was a grassland, spreading pale greens and yellows, the cold of nearing late autumn making the flora sparse, but still pines and birch trees speckled the land and, if he perhaps squinted, Wilson could almost make out a pond even.

The land bridge itself, however, didn't even come near to reaching it. Crumbled at the midway point, jagged rocks and fissure cracks, the sea below choked with the fallen ruins, and Wilson stood there a moment, staring mournfully out to the grounds he could not reach. 

All around him, a chill wind blew over the marble tiles, whipping up faint hints of dust before settling, and Wilson shivered as he rubbed his arms, wishing he had worn something warmer before being dragged to this place. It wasn't dangerous just yet, but deeply unpleasant; Wilson has died more times to hypothermia and cold shocks than he'd ever like to admit, and repeating the process was not on his list.

The land bridge was useless; the gap between islands was too large for him to attempt to jump, and now Wilson had to turn around, stare off into the silent emptiness of marble columns and pale dead trees, dust and sand and salt. 

His stomach prodded with a faint ache, a warning to hunger, and while his camp had more than enough stockpiled the fact that he wasn't there made Wilson turn a grimacing frown onto every bramble bush and tree stump he stumbled across. Not even a single berry bush in sight, and it was…

It was worrying him. The faint fog at the edges of his vision seemed to pulse, invading his peripheral vision with dark mist, and Wilson grit his jaw and tried to not look at anything he might not be truly seeing, picking up his pace.

He takes a few days break from that horrid machine and look where he ends up! In an even worse situation, and a headache was starting to form, crawl a tight band about his head and _squeeze._

He had to find a way out of here, but a curling thought settled at the bottom of his mind whispered thin, _that there might not be a way back._

He hadn't been spat out from a portal or even the machine that had taken him, only woken up coated in thick dust and salty sand, and nothing else. 

Not even a few snide words had greeted him, and Wilson nervously glanced to that fallen sun, still dark, still sunken crimson. His shivers were not quite from the cold anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idea originated from the mod 'Lost Fragment' Klei had of the William Carter puzzles - the one with the shadow clone boss fight.


	3. Rained in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in October of last year.

The sound of the rain atop the roof was thunderous, a thick cloud burst that streamed down the shingles and flooded the small square of wild lawn, weighing down upon the lone skeletal tree and creating fast flowing rivers down the cobble streets.

Lightning, bursts of thunder and rolling far away bolts that struck trees and split them neatly in half were sounds that were all but muffled by these four walls.

The creaking drone of the house itself, the leaking holes from the roof and the low groaning of the wood and brick structure, disused for ages before now, created a chorus that left no room for sleep.

Maxwell stared up at the ceiling, and wondered why he was here in the first place. 

He hasn't been in a house, a real house, in a very, very, _very_ long time. This one wasn't to his taste, of course not, built for pigs in mind, furnished with the lowest quality furniture a pig could pay the cheapest for, and it has probably sat on the outskirts of town for years before he came around and finally claimed it.

It had taken days, almost weeks to earn enough for what that damn pig was asking for. Pigmen were not known to be sleazy or very greedy, but the ones up here on the plateau were not very cheap. At the very least there were always opportunities for the odd jobs here and there; even if he wasn't a pig himself, the townsfolk were rather open minded. He's heard talk, of other visitors here and there, a woman with quick feet and even quicker mind who had more invested with exploring old maps than actually selling artifacts, the old man who built many an odd contraption who was then eaten up by the visiting roc and machines destroyed in the chaos.

Maxwell had a faint idea of who that may be, but word was that it happened ages ago, and the village hasn't seen another un-pig for many years until he came around.

...He hadn't meant to arrive here. He would have never chose to come here himself, if given that option.

It was chaotic, it was messy and crowded and the entire plateau was just stuffed with flora and fauna and not even a moment to take a breather with the amount of living that occured here. It was fairly obvious, that it had never been designed to house pawns.

And he did not have a hand in any of it; the newness of the entire plane threw him off terribly, and it has chipped at his pride, how often he has died here and not been returned to the usual Constant mainland. Hell, he'd even take the tropical islands over this; at least that he _knew_ , he had _created_.

This place was too much for him, but there had been no other option than to sit up in the ruins of a giant fabric balloon and luggage that was not his, no matter the initial set upon them, and set off in trying his luck at surviving.

He couldn't count the number of his deaths he's had to live through so far, but he supposed, if there was an order to things, buying a damn pig house was an obscure goal he completed. It was leaky and dusty and an ugly piece of work, but Maxwell now owned a house within the Constant.

How terrible. He had expected it to last no longer than a week more.

But it had prevailed, and while living amongst pigs was near always a last choice this time around their paved roads and distinguishable grocers made survival much easier. Their guards kept away any riff raff blowing in from the forest, or at the very least beat it senseless enough for Maxwell to finish off and scavenge the spoils, and the level of civility they all withheld was a bit...a bit more uplifting than he would have ever thought.

Along with the house, it's been a very, _very_ long time since he had partaken in actual civilization and not some horrid little camp thrown together by some horrid little pawn. 

He was doing remarkably well, this run, and his house still stood in all its ugliness. Eventually he supposed he'd have enough to make renovations; fixing it up to his standards should make it more bearable.

And yet, Maxwell found himself lying here, on a very uncomfortable bed with no frame, no bedding, staring at the ceiling and wondering vaguely if the storm will crash it down atop his head.

It was no chair, at the very least, but the act of actually _laying down_ upon something other than a grass roll or some mockery of padded blankets stacked together…

It left him feeling rather peculiar.

The roof rumbled as the storm lashed on, the slow drip drop of leaks and the puddling of water to the cracked wooden floor, and Maxwell squinted his eyes and stared up in the faded darkness. A brief flash outside, and then the few seconds delayed roll of thunder, filled the house with the bright light of bolted lightning, but the strike happened elsewhere and the ensuing darkness swept back in with ease. A few seconds passed, turning to minutes, time ticking on in the drips and plops of the water leaks, and the window opposite of his bed glowed faintly as amber light passed by.

A guard making the rounds, and he could not hear the snorts or clanking of metal armor through the storms roaring, just that brief light protected by a simple umbrella, and it was even odder, to recognize that there was something out there patrolling and it wasn't on the hunt for him.

He'd have never created such a thing, or in this case taught it to do so. Maxwell had a vague idea of who was the cause for this melting pot mess of creatures and plants, all crowded atop a rather small area of plateau top, and it was so heavily mixed with what had been floating around previously now; the chaos of creating without sound structure.

He suspected that this place had once been all ruin and little else, a dusty barren flatland only holding the crumbling ruins of something long passed and near nothing else. Perhaps a few scattered natives, trying to etch a living from the salty dust left in the wake of Their destruction; no matter the beginning, the end result has flourished into something so entangled with growth that it was a wonder it hadn't strangled itself to death yet.

As if it hasn't tried that with him, and succeeded more than a fair share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No planned plot, only rambling.


	4. Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in December of 2018

“I'm...I’m so tired.”

“...I know.”

Hands shook, wrinkled and scared and brittle, and his own laid over them, bone talons and chill skin pressing palm to bony knuckles. There was so much he could say, so much he could be saying, right now.

But he said nothing, because there was nothing he truly could say. The words in him stuck in his throat and he knew every single syllable meant absolutely nothing at all.

What was it that the other man liked to say, sitting in front of the fire and arms crossed about his chest, face drawn tight and staring into the flames? ‘My actions speak louder than my words.’

Wilson didn't think about it too often. It made him…

It made him _angry_ , and for all the right reasons at the wrong times. 

Dulled claws carefully entwined with knobby fingers, curling a light hold, and he could feel the man he was pressed to start to tremble even harder. With his head pressed to a shoulder, face turned against a warm throat, he slowly exhaled as the other man swallowed thickly, could already imagine the hard, snarled frown on his face, squinted shut eyes and the pinpricks of tears.

It was pathetic, and the both of them knew this. Wilson wondered on which of them knew it better.

...He was terribly cruel, wasn't he? Cruel, only to be kind, and he wondered vaguely on which he was more suited for.

He didn't think too much on it, on his mercy, or at least he tried not to. The fact that he lacked logic himself, as a person, was not lost on him, and it made him feel so…

...so _angry._

But there was no act to it, not anymore anyway, and the logic he had left asked him why even bother when the outcome gave nothing in return? All his anger wanted was violence, and he's put in his time already, on that Throne of shadow and thorns and a blackened heartbeat deep in the earth, matching his own. He's had blood on his hands, his claws, and now he wanted to lay them down and let it all wash off.

The stains would stay, just like the scars. That was something they both shared now, wasn't it?

Blood stains and scarring old wounds. There was no escaping them, not here.

The other man was still shaking, would stay doing so for as long as Wilson didn't mention it, and he rubbed his thumb over the old man's knuckles, dulled down claws careful and slow.

He hardly felt any of it, hands so nerveless now, but he did feel the shudder, the way the man curled over him even more, free hand wrapped about his back, grabbing a hold in his vest and lightly pulling him closer. Wilson obliged, shuffled forward a bit more, turning his head to press against a bony shoulder, letting himself lean and put much of his weight against the mans chest, feeling him take a stuttered deep breath. If the other man hadn't braced himself with the rolled up sleeping mats they'd have fallen over together, Wilson on top, and a part of him wished that had happened.

Maxwell was always so against being pressed against the earth, that sometimes the idea of it tempted him.

That anger in him wanted it, and he remembered. Oh, Wilson remembered.

It was a funny thing, he thought quietly, his free hand going to press his palm to the older man's chest, rub patterns through the worn fabric, push under the suit jacket and tug lightly on a discolored shirt. 

Maxwell remembered all that too, just as he remembered before that, before Wilson had even known there ever was a Throne in the first place. They both remembered what the other has done to them.

And yet here he was, feeling the older man up, breathing with him, sharing warmth together in an old, sagging tent.

All the clothing in the way made it hard to feel much, coupled with his own lacking sense of touch, and he tsked, quietly, fiddled with a top button before brushing against the crooked tie and the soft throat above it. He felt the man swallow at his touch, felt rather than heard the hiccup of a sigh, the slightest of sound, and it inspired him to rub his dulled claws more firmly against the man's throat.

Not tight, or aggressive, or even unfurling his claws, just brief and dragging, and Maxwell shivered a moment before carefully lifting his head, baring his throat to Wilsons touch.

The anger in him loved that, would have swelled in remembrance, temptation, had he not felt the older mans other hand rub up to the back of his neck, touch skin to skin before drifting into his hair. That was…

That was nice, Wilson thought hazily, closing his eyes and letting himself relax a moment, laying his hand back down, against Maxwells chest, his other still curled and twined with the mans brittle hand. He breathed deep, warm, as that bony hand combed through his hair, light tugs on his scalp and soft, scratching touch, feeling significantly calmer than before.

Perhaps it was that then. Not a need, or even want, not at all, but more of a…

...an understanding. The lack of logic, once more, didn't escape him, but warm and held like this it made the idea less distressing. 

That anger, and manic energy, was leaving him now, though slowly. And he knew he'd feel better for it too, more himself, or at least the person who he has become.

‘Actions speak louder than words’, he thought to himself, humming in appreciation as that hand itched up his scalp, careful in greasy tangles and combing behind his ears, warmth seeping in from the odd patterns, from the chest that rose up and down underneath him, the hand entwined with his own.

There wasn't much Maxwell did with himself, not anymore. He used to, early on, stretching his legs off the Throne and strolling about, still held so high and still so confident. Not quite useful, but the two of them had worked hard for that portal and Wilson still remembered that.

Nowadays, however...there were other people around, better fit for the roles now, more obliged and, in turn, much better at their work.

It had been almost a shame, seeing the old man lose his purpose.

Perhaps that explained it. Or at least helped explain most of it.

Again, lack of logic. What an absurdly terrible scientist he was, and the thought almost made him laugh.

Wilson made do with smiling, however, pressing his face against the older man's shoulder with a sigh, a slight shiver up his own spine as that hand itched against the nape of his neck, fiddled with the locks he had there. He felt when the other man turned, shifted, a face pressed to his hair and a sigh heaved against him, a deep, heavy breath.

What were they even doing anymore, he wanted to ask, why did they even do this anymore, why do this to themselves? There was no point, for him to remember, for him to be still so very angry.

And that was glossing over the fact that it truly didn't affect him so terribly anymore. Amnesia had a way of things, and so did repressing memory, and Wilson has known such things like old friends by now; he knew how to handle himself, alone or otherwise.

But, he supposed, for someone so trained to numbness or the will of eldritch affections, it might be a trite harder.

It was no skin off his back, in the end. 

And what a terrible thing to think of, to accept. Wilson had his own agency, and it wanted nothing to do with Thrones or shadows or those who've coupled themselves to such things. All that has ever done for him was drag him down, open him into someone else that he didn't want to be.

Yet he supposed this wasn't much of a rule break. Maxwell was nothing compared to those Wilson had shared company with while upon that Throne.

Sad to say, Maxwell wasn't much when compared to anyone. The others in camp were rather useful, and could hold their own in a fight, were mentally fit for the most part even. 

When was the last time Wilson had even seen the old man summon a clone of himself, and when was the last time he's seen such a clone actually go out and be useful? All that came to mind was an attempt to fend off hounds, and the boarish creatures had bitten those shadows near in half the instant they had raised their swords.

Were they always that weak, or had they deteriorated, like their old creator? Sad to think of, in a strange way. Their movements sometimes had such personality that it made it hard to compare creation and creator as the same.

Maxwells hand slowed its crawl, laid palm down on his back, and the man exhaled quietly, warm breath into Wilsons hair. 

“This doesn't help.”

“Does it?” Wilson muttered quietly, taking a deep breath of the man's worn shirt, wilderness and sweat and the faint, odd smell of nightmares tingling in the base of his skull, warm and familiar. “And here I thought I was doing so well…”

“Wilson...”

He was quiet, for a moment, letting the silence sink in, the weight of it, and though the thought of it was heavy it was saddening to think of.

“...Maxwell.” He said in turn, an answer, and he tightened his grip on the man's hand, curled over too bony knuckles, feeling an all too thin chest rise and fall against him. The starkness of it all, sometimes it was too much for even him to answer to.

But what can he do? He's been trying for decades, centuries, the infinite of the Constant, and still it all amounted to nothing. It was so hard to relearn, to remember that there was no saving someone who did not want to be saved.

And, though he didn't want to remember, to admit it, it did hurt every time. Every single time, he thought quietly, exhaling as he raised his head a bit to nuzzle against the old man's throat, feel him swallow and take quiet breaths, calm and deep. 

It probably hurt him more than he ever wanted to realize.

In all honesty, it probably hurt Maxwell more than he could even possibly imagine. It was the only reason he hasn't washed his hands of it all.

He lies, about that. There was always more than one reason, and it wasn't all just pity. Pity could only feed so much, after all.

And pity couldn't have lasted this long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An older story, never had much of a definable ending planned.


	5. Ugly sweater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in December of last year

"Couldn't you have, er, made this a little less itchy?"

Maxwell punctuated his words by rubbing his arms, the pricking of the furs, unfamiliar and a tad discomforting, scrawling up and around his back now, making a vague show of squinting his eyes.

Wilson just huffed, shook his head at him from where he was fiddling with the crockpot.

"You've had it on for barely an hour and you're already complaining."

"I don't make a frequent habit of wearing clothing that could be considered an eyesore."

"What, you don't like it?"

Said innocently enough, as Wilson pursed his lips and gave him a rather dramatic look, but Maxwell grit his jaw, flustered as he jerked his gaze away. 

"No, of course not, that is not what I said. It's…" The former Nightmare King took a moment, looking over the sleeves, the crooked zigzags of mustard yellow and mud brown and deep splashes of background murky blue, the dull gold sleeves that had, somehow, been measured just right to fit his thin wrists. The bristling mane of brown furs didn't quite reach up enough to prick his throat, not with the raised collared neck of softer fabric, but the crown jewel was the more obviously inset red gem to the center of the chest.

It was a gaudy article of clothing, an ugly sweater that reminded him of a certain unpleasant foe and his pets.

And Wilson had made it for him.

"...It's fine." Maxwell finished, forcing himself to stop fidgeting from the fabrics prickling nature, and he'd not admit it out loud but his sensitivity was more due to his own decisions than the make of the sweater itself; wearing a near full piece suit for so long, sticking to that and only that for some sort of anchored support, has made him deeply discomforted with wearing anything else. 

He supposed he was exaggerating a bit, the fur and fabric wasn't nearly as bad as it could be, and so Maxwell stilled himself, went quiet and a hint sullen as he crossed his arms in his lap and turned his gaze to the fire.

"Well, I had hoped it wouldn't bother you too much." Wilson drew his attention back upwards, staring over the fire to watch the other man set out two tea cups from his pack onto a small, crooked wooden table. "I was aiming for something soft, and very warm. I know how much the cold can get to you."

"I can handle the chill just fine, no need to worry." The bite in his voice wasn't quite strong enough to make his words anything but air, and Maxwell idly scratched at his arm, feeling the itch slowly fade back as the furs set inside the sweater grew more and more familiar the longer he wore it. "I suspect you used beefalo wool, haven't you? Seems to be the only thing you ever use…"

"That's because it's very useful!" Wilson shook a claw at him, but the firm, almost serious nature was undermined by the lopsided smile on his face. "Beefalo are wonderful animals, no matter the smell. Don't sell yourself short, Mister I-made-everything-here."

That made Maxwell roll his eyes, huff out something akin to a sigh, but it was all in jest and he knew that. 

Didn't stop his shoulders from falling, curling a bit and scooting forward on the log bench in a vague bid to get closer to the fire. It wasn't the worst thing to remember, the creation of the beefalo, but he's found most of his memories before now tainted with shadow and regret, no matter the circumstances, and as such felt it best to look away from such things. Wilson brought it up, every once in awhile, just like everyone else, but it has been less frequently a jab at him and his ego and more of something to quietly laugh together at.

Odd, to think of, but better than alternatives. He started to fiddle with the sleeves, gloved claws rolling the thicker gold fabric in soothing motions, patterns he only vaguely at best remembered, and Wilson continued on talking.

"And no, it's not beefalo wool. I wanted something softer, not as smelly."

"Hmm." Maxwell hummed his answer to him distractedly, and only looked up when Wilson started around the fire to join him, carrying a cup in each hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a thought, never completed it.


	6. Stop that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in March of last year.

Wilson could literally be doing anything, working, cooking, crafting something up or repairing or trying to sketch out blueprints, anything at all, and he's always had to live with distractions but _this_ one was completely out of the ordinary.

Clunky old battery things in his hands, dull claws lightly cupped about the two of them, and for whatever reason his gaze just kept drifting back outwards, to focus on that dark crimson red, the hint of black grey on the underside and the shine of scales and spines.

Maxwell himself seemed hardly aware of his stare, standing by the dark tendrils out reaching from the Shadow Manipulator, smoke and faded shadows as the older man flipped through his Codex, intent and entirely focused onto the near invisible words scrawled about the pages. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary for the rest of him, straight backed with the slight hunch of the shoulders, mouth turned downward and hiding the jagged jaws and crooked fangs. His suit was near brand new, coming from the portal a day or so ago now, and even sallow and pale he didn't look half dead from exhaustion just yet.

He looked perfectly normal.

Besides for the fact that a long crimson tail lazily drifted about the air behind the older man, spiked and scaled and hairless skin darkening even more as it flicked, twitched as if to have a mind of its own.

Webber had been near ecstatic when they had greeted the man at the portal and caught sight of the...new change. Their twittering and excited chatter hadn't seemed to amuse Maxwell at all, a first now that Wilson thought of it, but at the time he himself had been rather confused as well. It wouldn't be the first time someone ended up changed in the Constant, his bone claws were perfect examples of this, but a _tail?_

That was unheard of, at least for humans. Wortox sometimes shed his red fur and grew out a sickly green, sometimes dull gray or even shaggy brown, but he was also an imp, Krampi kin. Maxwell may not be entirely all too human anymore, Wilson knew that by now, but this was a bit out of left field.

The old man hadn't been too engaging when this was brought up to him, and Wilson found it odd that his questions were so carelessly dismissed. Webber had twittered and tilted their head this way and that, keeping their claws to themselves but still enamored by the seemingly monstrous change, and usually that sort of attention was for the likes of Woodie on his full moons and, very rarely, Wilson when he was willing to let them have a close look to his own talons and blackened clammy skin, but Maxwell was just as apathetic with them too.

That wasn't the normal behavior Wilson was used to, or at least the normal reaction of someone suddenly having a physical trait just up and changed on them. He himself had reacted quite badly when he had first realized something was off about his hands.

Maxwell seemed more intent on getting into the flow of things in camp, distancing himself from the prodding questions or even hints of questions on his tail and instead almost wholeheartedly throwing himself into the work it took to survive in a large camp.

Almost...almost as if he was trying to avoid the situation altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...when I play Dst my Maxwell is usually dressed up in the Trader's Furs and Draconic Legs, so...


	7. Coo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in February of 2018

“Wickerbottom, Wickerbottom!”

The flutter of wings startled her awake, the old lady blinking open her eyes and adjusting herself to the sun, heavyset wings spread from her back and laying limply in the dirt.

There was a thump as the man landed, great back wings flaring as he attempted to not trip himself up, neck and throat feathers raised and looking a little wide eyed and off kilter as he started to ramble.

“Wickerbottom, I have some questions and I know you're the only one who can answer them and I sort of need the answers soon-”

“Mr. Higgsbury!”

The snap of her voice silenced him instantly, simpering as she gave him a harsh look over her glass before she adjusted them back up her crooked nose. She raised her wings, stretched them for a moment, almost dwarfing the rather small man, before relaxing once more.

“While I appreciate your trust in me having the answers to your questions, you are currently in my sun. Please get out of the way.”

The man was empathetic enough to look apologetic, already mumbling a few sorrys as he shuffled out of the way, his own wings snapping to his back as to not accidentally block her from the sun's light. 

Wickerbottom sighed, wings spread to continue sunbathing, her old bones warmed and feeling quite content in her little clearing. It was unfortunate that the others knew of this place, the moonstone tablet underneath her cracked and overgrowing with plant life, so her meditations were very frequently interrupted.

“It's, it's just a few questions I don't need to take too much of your time-”

“I ask for a moment of silence, Mr. Higgsbury. Quiet yourself for at least a few minutes young man.”

He quieted, and Wickerbottom closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, wrinkled worn hands clasped in her lap.

The wind was thankfully blowing away from her today; Webber was a dear and sweet child, no matter their varying behaviors, but unfortunately spiders had a very cloying scent and the nest they had set up was rather close to this clearing. Not enough to put anyone in danger, but enough that Wickerbottom could catch the smell of bitter poison and the musty rot of caught creatures, mummified almost in some respects.

The smell made her ill, and some days she could not stand to be in this little place of hers. But today the flowers had their heads raised to the sky and all she caught in one big whiff was of nature's perfume, a mix of smells from the growing forest and the living earth.

Her cloak lay folded neatly next to her, unneeded as she let the sun bathe her. Sunbathing was an important activity, one that was just as important as finding food and water, but during her time here and observing everyone as they went about their day, not many of the others took the time to recharge.

She gave her recommendations, made sure Wendy got her time out in the sun as well as Webber, though the spider child was not required of it, so all she could do now was watch and wait. If anyone's mood improved doing this, if anyone drastically changed by doing what they all should be naturally doing, then perhaps she could use such evidence to get everyone to place sunbathing in their schedules.

After a moment she heard Wilson shift from one foot to the other, nervous, and then the shift of feathers as he spread his own wings to bathe in the sun. Wickerbottom smiled a small smile, eyes still closed pleasantly, and then cleared her throat smoothly.

“You may ask your questions now Wilson. I will listen.”

He coughed into his hand, a fake sound as he stammered for a moment, perhaps not having realized just how much he needed the sun to soak into his feathers, but then he got a hold of himself.

“I just need a few answers, and it's nothing big or important really. And I don't know much about such a subject, and thought you would, so…”

Wickerbottom waited patiently, listening to him shift himself about, wings moving and stretching before he finally slid down to sit in the grass and flowers, a little away from her. He took a deep breath, and Wickerbottom pondered on if she'd ever get the man to bath properly, he wasn't at all very hygienic and, to her more specialized scenting, he reeked.

“It's about birds.”

That raised a few questions, and her eyebrow raised in curiosity, mouth a thin line as she thought before she spoke.

“What kind of birds, precisely, and what about them do you have questions for?”

“Just a few questions about them, I'm a little curious, that's all.”

Wickerbottom opened her eyes and glanced at him, Wilson not quite looking at her, wings still spread but looking incredibly nervous. What an odd thing to be asking about.

“I never knew avian studies were of interest to you. I thought you had more of a focus on the mechanical and chemical?”

Wilson raised his hands, feathers bristling on his shoulders and neck feathers puffing up, but he took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself, clasping his claws in his lap.

“Like I said, I'm just curious. And is it not a bad thing to sometimes have an interest in something other than your life's work?”

Wickerbottom nodded, turning her head away to hide the hint of a smile gracing her face. Sometimes it was just too tempting, and Wilson was such an odd fellow.

“What species of bird are you specifically wanting to know about then?”

It took a moment for him to answer, mulling over exactly what he was going to say, and when he did speak it was rather quietly done, almost under his breath.

“Pigeons, ma’am. I'd like to know a little more about pigeon behavior.”

The old woman adjusted her glasses, her wings slowly folding to prevent her from overheating. The implications of such questioning whirled in her mind, but she stayed professional.

“ _Columba livia domestica_ , from the class _Columba_ and also known as _Columbidae_ , compromising of both feral and domesticated pigeons. They are a prolific urban bird and are well known for their diversity of colors and feathering.”

Wickerbottom breathed in deeply, listening to Wilson shift around nervously.

“Out of the group of those we know, two of our number are from this class. The Carters are both _Columbidae_ , mourning dove and rock pigeon, Wendy and Maxwell respectively.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wings Au, that never really went anywhere.


	8. Wing issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in March of 2018

“Again? Really?”

“I'll repeat myself, since you obviously did not hear me the first time: I do not need your help.”

Wilson frowned, clicked his claws together and watched as Maxwell turned away. Just seeing the odd angle of one of his wings was making the scientist nauseous, his own wings pulling up tight to his back.

“Are you sure? If it isn't done correctly you could damage-”

“I know what I'm doing!” Wilson almost flinched back at the snap of the other man's voice, ruffle of feathers around his neck puffing up in discomfort, and Maxwell glared at him for only a moment before his gaze darted away, his hackles raised and looking uncomfortably uneven with his odd wing drooping from his back. “Go and bother someone else for once Higgsbury.”

With that the older man turned away, straight backed and stiff, even though Wilson could see the way his wings were trembling from here, feathers all puffed up and wings held wrong, one worse off than the other.

“Are...are you sure?”

He was asking more out of a sense of obligation than anything else, or maybe just the faint vestiges of whatever care he had for others that he still had left. No one else ever seemed to offer help to Maxwell when the man was in distress; Wilson felt like that was unfair, but he was the only one who seemed to think that way.

Probably for a reason too; having offered to help, he was now being stubbornly refused and pushed away.

He wanted to help, he truly did, maybe not for the person he was helping per say but more because of the fact that the injury made his own empathy act up. Dislocated wings were never fun to deal with, and usually if one had it once they'd be getting it again and again.

Maxwell seemed to be plagued with the injury all the time, and by now Wilson was pretty sure the others were sick of helping him and only getting drama and complaining for their efforts.

But getting pinned down to the ground, unable to fly just because of an injury he couldn't seem to avoid was what was making Wilson even try to help. Maxwell didn't fly much as it was, and him suddenly not being able to fly at all seemed very wrong to Wilson.

“Do I have to keep repeating the same thing to you over and over?” Maxwell didn't sound as snarly as he had, seemed a little...tired. “I will take care of it, don't worry your empty little head about it.”

He had crossed his arms, wings shaking terribly, and Wilson shifted his own stance, nervous and unhappy and concerned with this whole damn situation.

A part of him was telling him he had other things he could be doing, so what if the older man couldn't fly, Wolfgang couldn't either and he did just fine, Webber did too, Maxwell could figure it out easy enough. This was not his problem to sort out and he was not obligated to figure it out.

No matter how much he felt like he was, Wilson wasn't. He didn't need to stick around like he was already.

“Now, will you leave me in peace, so that I may take care of this issue myself? Or do you want to continue to bother me some more, waste more daylight?”

There was a tense silence, stretched as Wilson fought himself on what he should do, what he could do even. If someone didn't want help, then they didn't want help. 

But…

Carefully dragging a clawed hand through his hair, hissing in a breath and trying to relax his feathers, Wilson made up his mind.

“You're more than a days walk from base camp, let me at least set up something for you to stay at.” He glanced up sharply at the intake of air and frustration from the older man, glaring at him firmly. “Set up your wing yourself, I won't bother you with that, but I'd rather not explain to Wickerbottom why I'd need one of the hearts tomorrow if you end up dead in the dark.”

Maybe he sounded a little callous, especially with how Maxwell seemed to be getting even more irritated before accepting defeat, wings drooping along with his shoulders, ducking his head and not looking as proud as he had been trying to look earlier, but Wilson wasn't going to push it. 

He'd just set up a campfire, maybe fiddle with a straw roll or something, nothing too time consuming of course. He'll not be staying long, not with how the other man certainly didn't want him around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Wing Au


	9. Last will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in May of 2019

_An engravement of their last words: “That’s enough of that.”_

***

The magma pools frothed, raw and furling heat that billowed up with bubbles, lava waves hardening into black rock before melting down once more as they lapped the edges, and Willow smiled a crooked grin before dipping her feet in.

The heat was close enough to divine, wiggling her toes as the molten rock caked up her legs, shoes and socks set safely aside, and the firestarter leaned back on her hands, ash and charcoal in between her fingers in a fine grey and black powder. The desert heat wasn’t too bad this time of the year, and she idly watched a few tumbleweeds drift past, a low breeze that brought with it the smell of flame and deep earth fire, smoke and destruction. 

Deeper down the dip, an almost fissure of lava pools and rivers, falls that spread down into a practical lake of fire, the surface of the sun all by itself, and Willow couldn’t hear a thing besides the bubbling, spewing bursts of magma. That didn’t mean she was alone; deeper down, curled and nested in glowing lava, the Dragonfly giant slumbered on.

She wasn’t close enough to the edge just yet to catch its attention, just tip toeing its territory was all, and Willow brushed back her bangs, pigtails heavy on her back as she kicked her legs in short bursts, splashing waves in the red, orange, yellow, the blackened crust of the pool itself. A few embers grazed her bunched up skirt, and she swatted and patted them away, leaving only the slightest of holes, blackened marks blending in with the fabric perfectly. Her backpack sat well away from her, packed with grass and twigs and the sort of dumpy stuff they always needed to have on hand, and so seemed to be always running out of. Personally, she’d much rather be out gathering charcoal or bashing in spider brains, or hell, even helping Wigfrid track down some large beastie or something.

Gathering grass and twigs was boring!

Which was why she had wandered off to the desert instead. At least here no one would assume all the smoke was hers.

At that thought steam rose up ahead, a burst of the rock splitting as lava shot up like a fountain. The rumbling of the dirt, the ground itself, was almost reminiscent of a volcano and Willow hummed as the aftershocks faded, another new stream creeping down to the giants nest, smoke curling upwards in big, black ashen clouds.

She had hardening lava curling up her legs, a blackened crust that she idly picked at, flicking drying molten rock back into the swirly glow of the pool, hands stained with ash before she dipped her fingers down into the lavas warm embrace.

It was thick, viscous, and she scooped up a bit to watch it ooze from her fingers, already darkening and cooling in her palms.

And then the volcanic ambience was interrupted, hands clapping together as footsteps kicked up dirt, headed right for her.

Willow frowned, a pout as she let her hand drop, slagged rock crusting over her skin, and expected the worst.

But when she turned her head, eyes already narrowed and crooked mouth turning grim, it was finger snapping and odd hand gestures that greeted her instead of an impatient voice.

"Pff, hey Wes."

The gangly man waved, arms darting around and hands curling and making all sorts of signs, his smoothed makeup face dipping in the most minor of expressions, though he did give her a big smile, lips sealed and ending his greeting with a sign that _might_ have been a W.

Willow wasn't all that good with learning whatever it was that he did with his hands, though old Wickerbottom was trying to teach everyone nowadays. After her failure at getting him to talk, that is.

That had been a fiasco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was looking at the gravestone quotes at the time.


	10. Who could win a pig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in January of 2019

“What the hell are you doing out here, old man?”

She watched as Maxwell halted midstep, the jump of his shoulders and the immediate stiffening up at the sound of her voice, and it took a bit of willpower to not snicker at the sight.

The moment he got a good look at her was the moment that hard old sneer had fallen back on his face, thought it looked as if it had already been growing there for a bit now, and he hissed in a breath, about ready to snap back probably.

Willow decided rather quickly enough to not warn him of the pig coming up behind him.

It snorted a squeal of surprise when it backed into him, massive even compared to the tall man, and she relaxed back to watch as he flailed a moment and stumbled away from it, the pig snorting out what might have been apologies before a shout caught its attention and it was off again, called away as the pigmen started to babble in their own native language.

Maxwell seemed to get the idea that maybe he should get a bit more cover from the celebrating masses, and with a curled lip and guarded, glaring look at her he shuffled over.

Her little spot wasn't much better, to be honest, but most pigs got one look at the heavy gold and black belt strapped to her waist and made a wide, respectful distance about her, snorting politely before leaving her to her business. Glancing over Maxwell, she could see he had no such loot in sight, and she couldn't help the crooked grin that split her face, baring her teeth and sharply eyeing him up. 

It was pretty obvious he had no intention playing in the games, that was for sure.

“I would say it is none of your business where I go, but-” He was cut off as a boar snorted its way around him, making the tall man have to press back into the wooden houses wall. Willow eyed it, grin falling into a crooked thin line, and it sniffed before dipping its head, muttering a quiet “ ‘scuse me” as it walked around her without trouble, bumping into other pigmen as it went.

Looking back to the man she caught his rather dark, disbelieving look, which she grinned at cheekily, giving him a questioning look enough to make him continue.

“...There has been a minor miscommunication in camp this morning.” He sneered again, eyes not meeting hers, and folded his arms about his chest before leaning back against the houses wall, looking away with a sigh. “My niece seems to have come under the belief that she has been given the go ahead with partaking in this… _mess.”_

Maxwell gestured out to the throng of rumbling pigmen, some squealing in excitement and others snorting moodily, trotting about to vendors of snacks and souvenirs, a gaggle of pigs in celebration of the new year.

“Pssh, whose telling her no?” Willow could already take a guess, but side eyed the man as he glared at the pigs.

“The old woman made a point to tell her no if she had no chaperone, not to mention I don't want her to get mucked up in all this rabble.”

They sat in tense silence for a moment, and her next grin was more of a snarl, and it was satisfying to see him tense up and almost flinch when she straightened up, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck.

“Welp, better go find her then.” There was a look he was giving her, dark and serious and most certainly wondering if he should ask her for help, but Willow beat him to the punch. “Pigs can get a bit rough here, I don't think a kiddo can handle it all that well, even if it's Wendy.”

She wasn't aiming to give him any ease of mind, but if Wendy was lost in this mess then the kid was gonna head back to camp with more than a few bruises and scrapes. Broken bones were not uncommon, but the idea of leaving her to that fate didn't sit right on Willow.

Wendy can take care of herself. But helping out a bit didn't hurt nothing, and Willow had no objection to helping a kid in need.

The pigs were pretty good about getting out of her way, and she hadn't even given Maxwell a moment before she walked off, listening as pigmen snorted and the huffed curses of the old man as he tried to keep up in the masses.

Willow had no idea where to look first, but she wasn't in any rush. Sun was still up for quite awhile, the pigs were only just beginning the fair really, and a kid can pass time pretty safely if they made sure they didn't get stepped on, which she was sure Wendy was smart enough to do.

Glancing over the mix of boars and sows all about them, squealing in both broken english and their native tongue, gleaming gold and black belts with skirts of green and yellow, Willow mused on the cloth bags hanging from a few of their hips, fat with gold nuggets and the like. If she didn't have company that was what she'd spend her time on, though her own hidden pouch was fit to bursting at this point.

Pigmen didn't have much of a concept for stealing or thieves, so it was pretty easy to skitter away and lay low a few minutes, then count her spoils. Her younger self would be proud with how much she's accumulated in a few hours.

Then again, her younger self would've been rendered speechless at the fact she was snatching up chunks of solid gold. Imagine, what she could get elsewhere if she just chucked a nugget at some random ass shopkeeper, no questions asked.

There was a sudden thrum of sound, loud that turned into a roaring of cheers, and the pigs gave her no distinction this time as a few boars squeezed against her, faces all turned away in the same direction, raising their hooves and squealing in excitement. Letting herself be moved about as the crowd grew chaotic and the loud, indistinguishable voice of the Pig King rose up was a pretty natural, normal occuranced.

But then there a gruff hiss of irritation and Maxwell had somehow maneuvered to back into her, leaning back as he was shoved out of the way by excited pigs. She had to stiffen her shoulders, dig in her heels because he was gonna push her over even with his light weight, and the pigmen trying to get to other positions or just adjusting where they stood snorted in agitation, shoving and pushing each other. 

She could hear the man sputtering, curses and then trying to get his footing, but another call from the Pig King was met with answering cheers and whatever he had to say was drowned out.

Willow rolled her eyes, braced with the other man shoved up back to back with her, and waited a moment for all the squealing to quiet down.

The pig village was alright to navigate, even in this chaotic mess. Alone, that is, and now she was saddled with an old guy needing to find his niece. Willow hoped the girl was fairing well, and was smart enough to hunker down away from the fat muscle of pigmen. They could break her in half without a single thought!

There was a wheeze behind her, pressure and weight as a snorting pigman grumbled disdainfully and shoved against them, making her take a step to keep balance.

Now that she thought about it, the girl's _uncle_ could probably be snapped in half pretty easily as well.

“...Fuck this.”

Twisting her arms, locking around the surprised, distracted mans arms, Willow drew in a deep breath, steadied herself as a pigman shoved its backside much too close to her face to be comfortable, its shouts of excitement bellowed and ringing in her ears, and started to drag Maxwell away from the core of pushing, shoving pigs. 

They weren't quite on the outskirts, and she grit her teeth whenever the taller man lost his balance and almost tipped her, but eventually an opening presented itself and with another haul of effort she headbutt a pigman out of the way, smashing into its ribs and tumbling out into open air.

The pigman snorted, bumping back into colliding with the group behind it, and its beady eyes barely even noticed her as one cuffed it upside the head.

As chaos broke the ranks, drowning even the Pig Kings announcements of speech, Willow sat up, heaving in a breath of the cooler, much cleaner air of the open village. Not as many vendors here, most in the clusterfuck that was the heart of the festivities, and only houses and fences rose up ahead, flowers and grass and cobbled paths. A few pigmen skittered about, rushing to get in the mob or, too small and young to join, hovering about the outskirts, standing tiptoe to try and catch a look.

One particularly small piglet nearby snorted at her, beady eyes blinking in plain curiosity, but she had other things to think about.

Standing up, stretching her arms and making sure she hadn't dislocated anything due to the fancy maneuvering, Willow put her hands on her hips and swirled around to look down on the old man.

Who was still lying face down in the dirt and looking pretty mucked up, all things considering. She pursed her lips, tilted her head a moment before poking him in the side with her shoe.

“You dead or somethin’? Wendy's still out there ya know.”

He grumbled, a huff before the man got his arms under and carefully pushed himself up from the dirt, spitting and looking generally rather frazzled. The words “-completely uncivilized-” were the only ones that she could actually catch from the din of the pig mob behind them and Willow shook her head as the older man stood up on shaky legs, attempting to brush off the dirt and pig sweat stains caking his suit. She wondered, briefly, if he was referring to the pigs or to her.

A smattering of oinks and pig language caught her attention before she could decide if she wanted to nettle Maxwell or not, and Willow glanced over to watch as a few more wide eyed piglets joined the first, whispering to each other and giggling as they watched.

She frowned for half a moment, hands on her hips and still a bit battered from struggling through mounds of pigmen, before her mind switched tracks and she turned back to Maxwell.

The man had just gotten to his feet, more focused on how he looked than on the piglets pointing and gawking at him, before she elbowed him in the arm with a crooked grin spreading on her face.

“You're good with kids, ain’t ya? Maybe these guys know where Wendy went.”

The look he leveled down at her was nothing short of murderous, and when he finally looked over at the growing crowd of piglets it somehow got even uglier. Adjusting his suit collar with a huff he hissed through his teeth, Maxwell leered back at her with as much intimidation that the old man could possibly muster.

Which wasn't a whole lot, since the both of them were covered in dirt and pig yuck. The piglets, on the other hand, cowered back as they watched the man sneer down at her.

“For your information, _piglets_ have nothing in common with _human children_. If you want to waste time with them, be my guest, but I don't expect you to get anything out of the brats.”

And with that he spun around, went back to trying to dust off his suit, grumbling all the while.

Willow hummed thoughtfully to herself. With his attitude, it almost seemed like he didn't even want to find his niece.

Wait, no, he probably just didn't want to sully his hands and waste his _precious_ time here trying to find her. Poor Wendy.

Hell, if Willow had an uncle like that she'd not have that uncle for very long. Not as if she ever had an uncle to begin with or anything, but if she did…

There was a small snort at her side, a tug on her skirt, and Willow blinked down at the piglet looking up at her. 

The others were still whispering to themselves, but the group seems to have moved mysteriously closer to her and farther from Maxwell.

“Uh, yeah?” Willow blinked down at the piglet, who waved its little hooves, gesturing to make her lean down to its level. “What is it, little guy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed the pig new year event. I remember drinking a bit, getting all fussy about Maxwell getting beat up by pigs because I was terrible at the mini game, and then drawing a picture of Maxwell being picked up by a boar to commemorate the event.


	11. Given rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in September of last year.

There had been arguing.

Willow didn't know when it had started, or cared much for why; she had been over by the pres-hat machine thing, trying to tie a red gem and a broken down spear together without bringing too much attention to herself. 

She knew she could just ask Wilson, who would then bother Maxwell about it, but the last time she had gotten a fire staff off of the both of them it was sort of weird and didn't smoke up as prettily as usual. The fires didn't even spread either, and they stank of nightmare fuel, which was pretty gross, so this time Willow was gonna figure out how to make one all by herself and no one was going to stop her.

It was all background noise, whatever yelling and shouting there usually was, she was used to hearing that sort of thing even though it _technically_ has been a really long time since she's been on the streets and heard random strangers fight about their problems in public, but tuning it out was pretty easy. The gem just wouldn't stick on while she tied it up with rope, kept slipping away as if it was alive or something, and she was getting a bit frustrated, maybe she's forgotten something and this stupid hat machine was keeping it secret from her but Willow wasn't gonna give up just yet.

And then she heard someone yell, and the telltale sound of weapons being drawn.

That could be kinda normal too, honestly, but then there was Webber shrill gargle of a voice, sounding in spidery distress, and Willow shot up straight, dropped the stupid gem and spear handle and rope and was immediately hurrying to go see what was happening.

She never used to be all that good with kids; when she was young she sort of led her own gang once, but then there was a mutiny and all sorts of trouble after that, and really having a bunch of doofuses follow her around and do her every order _wrong_ just wasn't as fun as doing all the dirty work herself. Kids were snotty and annoying and bratty and selfish and just, real damn mean, and Willow just didn't like 'em all that much.

Webber and Wendy were exceptions.

...Wurt and Walter too, though she's pretty sure neither of them like her that much. "Fire safety" this and "ouchie fire hurts" that; the other two never really gave her that much trouble, and were sort of smart enough to get out of dodge when Willow was on a burning spree. The two newish kids still haven't learned that about her. 

It was near the middle of camp, which was mostly empty from everyone out doing chores and getting food and other dumb stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original planned plot was about Wigfrid's recent short and exposed history.


	12. Sinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in August of 2019

Webber puffed up their fur, mandibles all drawn in close, and they wiggled on their seat, grabbed tight to the ropes, and then rocked back in one big jump.

The swing creaked, a low funny rumble, and they giggled a spider giggle as the air rushed past them and they swung back and forth, kicking their legs out to keep momentum, a spider smile pulling at their face as they wiggled all their mandibles and limbs about. There was a little bit of an autumn breeze, a tiny bit of chill, but their fur and bristles kept them warm, not needing any cold weather clothing until winter and all its snowy cold would arrive. For now, they didn't need any clothing at all!

Their bestest friend in the whole wide world, on the other hand, was wrapped up in a fall koalaphant vest, looking a bit hidden under all that brown fur and rolled sewn leather. Wendy had her hands hidden in the folds, pale golden hair sort of roughed up and tangled as she sat by the base of the tree, looking out to nothing in particular.

Her sister floated nearby, even paler than anything else, and all glowy, and her blank eyes watched Webber as they rose up and then swung down and back, limbs waving at the force and that funny thing called gravity, kicking their legs out and laughing like any small child enjoying a swing to its full extent.

Wendy, however, sat in the chill that wasn't quite cold just yet, the fur brushing over her mouth and tickling her nose, and stared glumly at all the slow turning of yellow in the meadow. All the flowers were drying up, wilting, hibernating, and soon the weeds would take over, nettles and dandelion clocks and bristled crabgrass taking over the dead blossoms place, before even that too became coated with thick snow. The beefalo herds may amble their way over then, abandon the prairie tundras and dig around for still living roots, and in the spring it would all meltoff into flooded grounds, seeds drifting their way to the rich soil and then taking, beginning the cycle anew. 

Wendy knew all about that sort of thing; today her fingernails were still caked with dirt and loose soil, her own gardens now getting prepared for the long winter, helping the automaton settle their flower garden as well, and the day has been a bit of an exhaustive one.

For one, she had come back to camp after her gardening only to hear the racket of another fight, and between who and who she did not stick around to find out. Webber had been trying to hide by pretending they were reading and doing their homework, which they weren't really doing, only doodling in the corners, so she had made a haughty comment about going out and had dragged them with her.

No one had seemed to hear her, hadn't even tried to argue or tell her it was getting dark, it was getting cold, they shouldn't be out so late. So now she sat, Webber playing on the swing, and waited for something that wasn't going to happen.

There was a lantern by her side, unlit, the bulbs dull and inactive; Wendy was not stupid, she had made sure they'd be out here prepared.

And Abigail swirled nearby too, low hums of almost contentment, slowly drifting from side to side as if to copy Webbers motions.

The tree itself creaked, grumbled and cracked very faintly, and the old wood would give out someday, break in one big split. The swing had been made many springs ago, when the tree had been fully leafed, something other than pine or birch, but now its bark was rampant with holes and peeled bark and even the little carvings she and Webber had made.

Next to her, near the base, was the scrawl of child's handwriting, encircled by one rather shaky oval.

_'Webber n Wendy BFF'_

Upwards was something she had made a while ago, a tombstone and attempts at flowers. Carving a tree was difficult, more so than carving bone.

As a small wind drew by, brushed at her hair and made Webber puff up their fur even more, putting more force into their swinging a moment and then leaning as they rose, staring up at the empty grey sky, Wendy also thought about the encroaching winter ahead of them.

For reasons unknown to all but her, she felt with finality that she was to die when the snows started.

Once, at the very least. She will die at least once this winter.

This thought did not, in fact, leave her feeling any relief. All she'd be leaving behind would be the callouses of her hands, and perhaps the little bit of height she had acquired this last year. And then she would be behind again, Webber already fleshing out in hardened chitin, thicker lengths of fur, a little disproportionate and odd looking now but soon to grow into their more mature form. 

Wendy preferred that they stay the same age, more often than not. It was harder to talk and share things when one of you was younger or older than the other, especially since they were best friends and all.

Her only friend, really.

The thought came unbidden, and for some reason it made Wendy feel a little heavier inside, dragged down and dark. Her sisters glow brightened, silver lashes as Abigail drifted her gaze down to her, floating and watching and mumbling quiet talk. Her flower was in Wendy's pocket, protected from the cold, dry wind, and Wendy shifted one of her colder hands down, to brush the brittle petals with her fingertips, her response.

Webber, for their part, trilled a high pitched spider whistle, swinging back and forth and chirping and giggling along the way, enjoying their freedom from camp and homework.

Miss Wickerbottom had instructed them today with histories, and boring old histories too! Why did they have to know any places history anyway? What even was a States, and why did everyone fight all the time too?

And why did they have to care about govern-ments? Everytime they said it they kept thinking it was a made up word, cause it made no sense whatsoever to them, none at all! Miss Wickerbottom said it was something for societies, for civilization, that even the pigmen had govern-ments, but Webber couldn't really understand what she meant. Pigmen had their King, and sometimes a Queen, in the far off places, but Miss Wickerbottom made it sound as if there was more than that. 

But if civilization had govern-ments, then why didn't they have one? Miss Wickerbottom said that they would need more people, said that most govern-ments had tons and tons of people, to the thousands and more even, but Webber found that hard to believe.

As if there were ever thousands upon thousands of people out there, really! Webber knew there were others, like the people out on the islands or up on the plateaus, but not thousands, not more than that. Miss Wickerbottom was supposed to tell them real facts, not make up that there really were tons and tons of people out there, living in one place forever and ever. That didn't make any sense to Webber, and it was really, really hard for them to even imagine it.

Now, spiders could live in great big old nests. Sometimes those reached thousands, maybe, sometimes even more, and Webber always got lost in those places, huge mazes and so many new spider friends, colony Queens and working together warriors.

But not humans. That was a little hard to even believe.

So they were real glad that Wendy had wanted them to come out and play today. Maybe Miss Wickerbottom will forget all about their homework, and they'd not have to sit there and stare at the paper for hours and hours, not knowing what the right answer is.

Miss Wickerbottom was pretty distracted earlier anyway, what with all that yelling. If she forgot, then Webber would be real happy!

But they'd not be happy about the fighting. They hadn't looked, cause it sounded like it had turned into something like a big fist fight, so they didn't know who started it, but it had been a bad one. Everyone had been calling each other mean names, and even threatened to strangle each other!

So Webber was very glad they were out here right now. They never liked it when someone got angry at camp, when their friends, their family wanted to hurt each other. At least that meant no one would hurt themselves; they were too distracted hitting each other, after all!

Miss Wigfrid had gotten a hold of her spear, and they didn't want to think about it but one of Mister Maxwells shadows had been there too, holding its dark swirly sword, and Miss Willow had been waving her lighter. That was why Miss Wickerbottom had left them alone to finish their studies, after all. 

Maybe, they thought to themselves, maybe Miss Willow will burn up their homework, and all their study books, and maybe even all the rest of their work books!

But then, they realized, that would mean Miss Wickerbottoms tent would be burned down! And all the hard work she had done, in making all the books just right…

Webber shook themselves, put more force into their next swing, and made themselves stop thinking about it. They'd not get sad cause of that stuff, not right now; they were with Wendy, their bestest friend in the whole wide world, and they'd only think about playing with her and Abigail, nothing else!

All that adult stuff didn't matter when they were with their best friend.

They looked down to her as they swung up, claws holding tight to the swings itchy rope, and leaned far back as they swung back down, limbs raising and letting the chill wind ruffle up their fur as they went by. Abigail floated close, wide eyes and blank and all ghostly, and she drifted and tilted side to side like she was on a swing too.

Webber smiled a spider smile at her, squinting their eyes at the cold air that blew on their face, and they decided that, maybe later, they'll ask Mister Woodie to make another swing.

Looking back at Wendy, they did feel their limbs droop a bit. Wendy didn't like it when the adults all yelled at each other.


	13. Moons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in July of 2019

Webber thought full moons were fantastic.

The light meant that they could see, their spider friends could see, and their human friends could see, and that was really, really great to them. Everyone can see for one whole night, and nothing scary or mean was going to hurt anyone for it!

With Glommer buzzing up a storm next to the campfire, all her Glomgloms darting and bouncing around, pink goo already trailed almost everywhere, Webber was pretty sure that this was going to be a great full moon. Even Mister Woodie had stayed nearby, the great big Mister Werebeaver tromping around and sniffing and chewing at trees, chittering and chirping, and Webber had made sure to greet him earlier, just incase he forgot they were there and not some wandering spider.

Mister Werebeaver sort of forgot about that sort of thing, and liked cracking spiders open without wondering why they were there in the first place, so Webber had wiggled their mandibles and churred and whistled and, when Mister Werebeaver had relaxed and turned away to go about his business again, they had made sure to give him a big old hug.

Mister Werebeaver was a bit finicky when it came to that sort of thing, but he had sniffed the top of their head and bumped Webber a bit before waddling off, so they knew that everything would be fine for Mister Woodie. With all those new trees planted nearby, he wouldn't even be wandering off far either, so the only thing that might bother Mister Werebeaver would be treeguards.

And he can snap them in half with his big teeth, so Webber wasn't worried about that.

The Glomglom in their lap buzzed, twittered and hummed with its little flapping wings, all its eyes blinking randomly up to Webbers face, and they gave their little friend a spider smile, limbs twitching as they patted it on the head. Glommer rumbled nearby, watching her brood, as Miss Wickerbottom called it, create big messes with slime and happy buzzing. Webber knew some of it would stick to their fur, knot up their bristles, but all the Glomgloms seemed really happy this full moon so they didn't think it would be nice if they got all funny about the mess.

Not like Mx. WX78, who got kinda weird if that slime got stuck in their joints and oozed all over their metal pieces, so they had stomped out of camp ages ago, before even nighttime, heading out to their gardens. And not like Miss Wickerbottom, writing in one of her books about Glommer and Glomgloms under one of the wall less tents, who had instructed Miss Wigfrid into chasing away any excited bugs from entering tents, with Miss Winona shooing them away from machinery and chests. Mister Wolfgang had gone out with Mister Wes, cause it was easier to hunt when the night was all bright like this, and it wasn't all that hot when only the moon was up anyway, so they'd not overheat either. 

Webber didn't like summer all that much, it made them sweaty and itchy and some of their bristles would come off and they shed a bit too, but nighttime was better. Especially when everyone could see everything!

Webber turned their head and watched as Miss Willow, hands full of gunky pink slime and a big crooked grin set on her face, made her way determinedly towards the fire pit.

The Glomglom in their lap seemed to come to the same conclusion as them, buzzing as it hovered up and darted away, leaving slime in their fur as Webber hurriedly scooted back behind one of the benches Mister Woodie had made a long while ago.

The near explosion almost shook the ground, Webber watching as all that goo dissipated into the flames with Miss Willow cackling gleefully as the fire curled around her, and Miss Wickerbottom was already yelling and so was Miss Wigfrid, hollering as embers spat and almost landed too close to the tents. They had ducked down pretty good, cause none of the flames had so much as licked them, and Webber chittered as they watched everyone sort of lose their mind, but in a good way.

Miss Winona was already laughing, and then so was Miss Wigfrid as she tugged up Miss Willow from her flames, Miss Wickerbottom huffing as she scolded and grumbled, and Webber watched as Miss Wigfrid handed over a glob of goop to Miss Willow behind her back, away from the old lady's eyes, grinning and winking as they watched on.

There were going to be a few more minor explosions tonight, and none of them were of the science kind for once.

Mister Wilson was actually still over at his alchemy machine, tinkering away underneath it, not even worried from all the noise! Webber looked back and forth between the scolding Miss Willow was getting and the quiet mumbles of Mister Wilson as a gathering of Glomgloms watched him attentively, and then got up and made their way over to their sciencey friend.

Glommer hummed a soft buzz as they passed, blinking shiny dark eyes all randomly and one by one, and Webber hummed their own spidery sound, patting the big bug on the head before hurrying on.

None of the slime from those Glomgloms seemed to have reached the machine itself, but Mister Wilson's trousers were gonna get all sticky and his shoes too if no one warned him!


	14. From dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in September of last year

Wormwood had gifts!

A nice big bag of gifts, smelly and rotten, dirt and pebbles and crumbles still dusted and coating the inside of their pack, and Wormwood continued to spring off towards camp, leaves bouncing and shifting in damp, cool air. It was Spring! Wet spring, happy spring, buzzy buzz, but only early Spring, only cold water run off and thin frosty snow in the mornings; Wormwood had to always shake off the ice that kept forming on their roots and leaves, and then sit up in the pale sun all until evening just to make sure none of them got brown and frostbitten and crinkly biting pain, the type that had Winter nipping their growth off and to build leaf litter in a trail wherever they go.

But still, Spring! Sun bright and birthdays and holidays and growth and warmth and light and spreading green roots, and Wormwood was just so excited for when they could start putting down shoots, plant all their seed friends their meaty friends had collected over the seasons, start to coat and handle the compost and litter leftover from main smelly friend camp; old lady friend came up with plan, made it very, very organized, a bit odd to Wormwood, so used to uneven rows as they were, but the ground went easy damp and crumbled at their touch and the red wigglers listened to their gargled breathy voice and it made their meaty flesh friends quite happy.

Even flower small girl was pleased when given bags of fertile earth, plant foods Wormwood worked so hard to make, though her fleshy skin about her brittle skull never much twitched or changed like Wormwood has seen with the others. Her voice was always pleased though, they could hear it, faint and fluttering and there, and Wormwood was always happy to help little girl friend and her cold ghosty goo bloodline.

Now they had gifts for other friends, or other friend, yum friend, hot water and salty salt salt and sizzling burning scary fire, but he was sorta like hot flamey friend, tangled with the flames in ways Wormwood could never even conceive of.

He did not stick his flesh into the fires like fire lady, but the flesh man waved his hands and burning hot hot metal tools and always made something yum yum for everyone!

They paused for a moment on that thought, savored and crunched the wording about their head, before Wormwood gave themself a quick wobbly nod and got back to rushing ahead. Words sound like other words, sometimes, and red fur imp friend liked them that way. Wormwood will need to tell him all about it next time they see his furry tail!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planned plotline - Wormwood hands over their newfound gift to Warly, wondering if he could cook something up with it.
> 
> Warly takes a minute to not panic, looks it all over, then starts the crockpots to make some Bone Bouillon before camp starts filling up again. Waste not want not, and what else is Wormwood gonna do with a human skeleton anyway, besides bury it?


	15. Wabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in December of 2018

“My, what a feisty little thing you are!”

Flashes, black and white and swipes of red, and everything was a mess of color and images and movement, the sharp click of heels on marble, smooth, even.

Yet he was swung, swinging back and forth, twisted, and the world was an upside down mess of nausea, his stomach falling to his throat as he kicked, tried to struggle in blind panic. He caught on something for a moment, fought it, and then his legs were quickly caught and held still.

“Oh calm yourself Maxwell, no need for that.” The pressure around his legs tightened, a vice grip, and still everything was a confusing mess of color and shapes, a dizzy fog that blurred horridly with a crystal clear voice.

If his heart hadn't been beating so loudly in his ears, if he didn't feel as if he'd be sick and everything was not so twisted wrong, he'd have instantly recognized whose voice was speaking to him.

He flinched when a hand drew itself to his face, long fingers tipped in shadow claws dragging down in a slow, sweeping touch, and it was an icy tingle left behind, pure blackened shadow touch.

He knew that, he realized vaguely, he knew what that was, but what was most confusing about everything here was the size, talons and palm enough to curl over his full vision, and then the hand tugged up, up, farther than he'd of thought, tugging at his ears almost playfully.

_Wait._

Before the confusing signals could make sense, the air shifted and his belly dropped as he was yanked up, the swing of being upside down finally understood as he was raised to stare, face to face, eye to eye, to a dark shadow.

Which solidified, slowly, and he blinked wide eyed, breath frozen in his lungs as a familiar face smiled at him, eyes shining dark and almost coy.

“I've never seen you so shocked, Maxie dear!” Charlie tilted her head back, giggled a high pitched laugh, so familiar and striking that it made his heart drop, and his vision wavered dark and grey, heart thudding in his chest as he remembered he needed to breath.

She watched him a moment, almost amused by his stunned silence, and a wide, much too wide, grin spread over her face. 

“I think it fits you, I really do.” She raised up her free hand, wiggled her fingers tipped with sliver thin talons and watched as he blinked at them, her smile turning small and amused. “You've always had the air for it, you know.”

When she laid her palm to his head he couldn't move, frozen, the sharp pin pricks of shadow claws, and then he shuddered in a breath, an almost frantic hot flash of panic in his throat as he tried to get away, the words lost to him in whatever blind fear had him in its grip.

It was encompassing, chaotic and out of control, almost animalistic in his terror as he withered in her grip, trying to break free.

But she held him tight, watched with a grin as he tried to free his legs and only had her hands tighten their grip, throwing his arms out to try and bat her talons away, huge and razor thin, grinning face big and almost his entire world as she brought him closer.

_Wait.._

“You've always had a liking for them, I know that. And really, Maxie, it's always good to step into another's, smaller, shoes.” Her grin turned wicked, sharp and fanged, and the shadow was creeping back, twisting Charlies features into something he could hardly recognize anymore. “It's just getting a different...perspective, on the world, isn’t it?”

She tugged his ears ( _..what..?_ ), with a playful laugh, almost a giggle, petting him softly, too soft, something he hasn't felt from her in awhile, and Charlie's sharp grin softened, quieted as he blinked at her in utter fear, breathing fast and heart pounding even faster, as if fit to burst from his chest.

She tilted her head, met him eye to eye, that soft, small smile on her face so different from the dark covering her, eating away the skin of her face into something shadow and horrifying.

“Don't think too hard about it.” She gently poked him in the nose, sending him swaying back and forth in her grip. “It's just _perfect_ for you. Have fun, Maxie.”

With those last parting words, almost light and cheerily spoken, her last smile still soft and familiar, he felt the grip on his legs loosen, unfold, and then let go.

And he fell, Charlie's looming face consumed by the shadows as her laugh, clear and high pitched and sharp, echoed behind him, following him into the dark.

***

Maxwell slowly came back to consciousness, breathing in deep as the dream, memory, whatever it was swirled like a fog in his mind. There was a light breeze, the slightest hint of chill, and he could feel grass and dirt under him, the false warmth of the sun.

It was familiar enough for him to blink open his eyes, squint in the light, to stare for a moment at the blades of grass and the dirt and, after a moment, a passing butterfly, color blurred as it fluttered close, as if investigating him.

And then it darted away the instant he moved, attempting to sit up. His back ached, a slow pain that amplified as he pushed himself up, trying to get his limbs to cooperate with him even as his joints complained, pushing paws into the dirt and stretching out.

_Wait a bloody moment._

Maxwell found himself staring down at two furry paws, curved claws out, black fur speckled with grey, and they were most certainly in his field of vision of where he had been putting his hands.

There was a moment of silence, empty headed as he waited, as if to see if they actually belonged to someone else.

They were trembling he realized, and he was shaking, and good lord did his back hurt, his whole body in fact. Something was seriously not quite right here.

Then Maxwell took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. It was probably just something to do with his eyes, something must have happened when he had been unconscious, it wasn't all that uncommon when being revived into a new world-

And then the dream came flooding back, Charlies face eerily looming in his mind, already buzzing into forgetful static besides a sharp, crooked grin skewered into his memory.

_Oh no._

He swiftly tried to stand up, opening his eyes and stubbornly ignored the paws that were most definitely not his hands as they moved with him, and he rose in the air for half a moment before something sharp pinched his spine and he fell, rolled backwards, waving his limbs to try and get balance as the pain subsided.

Like this, sprawled on his back, he could also now see another pair of paws, legs, and fur and-

_A bloody rabbit-_

Maxwell scrambled up, almost falling again as his limbs jerked and tried to move the way he willed but not quite making it, and he twisted about in the grass for a moment before catching sight of his back and behind, a white fluff of a tail, speckled with grey silver, wiggling up at him.

For a moment he stared, breath caught in his throat, and then he turned and sat back, or as best as he could sit, paws in the dirt and spine curved funny but not, staring as that earlier butterfly flew past, completely oblivious to him and his predicament.

About a mile away, the flat, sometimes hill rolled ground perfect for carrying sound about, a good warning for possible hounds, Wilson had to stop his work on a new tent to listen to what sounded like a high pitched, haggard, and very small, scream. And then readied his spear, wondering what the absolute fuck could have even made that noise and if it was heading for him next.

Meanwhile, the butterfly landed itself onto another flower, making do with its work as a black rabbit continued to scramble about in the background, completely panicked and squeaking incomprehensibly.

This wasn't, it didn't make any sense! How the heck did he even get into this situation?

Charlie, he remembered, she had something to do with it, and Maxwell skidded to a halt, claws digging into the dirt and grass, breathing hard as he tried to think, tried to remember.

He must have died at some point, to be in this new plane, and she must have done something in the inbetween, pulled a few strings and tugged the rules about to her liking. As if this was some game, shoving his debatably human mind into some varmints flesh body!

_...Oh wait._

Well, it _was_ a game, but that didn't excuse much! He was still here, like this, and…

And…

Maxwell took a look around, his shaking finally fading as he blinked in the morning light, taking a deep, steadying breath.

He had never realized just how _big_ the world actually was. Was this what they all saw, everyday?

And then he shook himself, and he might have frowned but his face wasn't quite doing that. What was he doing, thinking of rabbits like that? As if the dumb beasts cared at all, or had the sentience for it.

Now, him? Here he was, obviously not in the right body, and obviously not fit to survive. What was Charlie thinking, that he'd just play along with her game like this?

She must not know him well enough, he supposed. Maxwell sat down with a huff, turned his head to watch the butterfly lift from its flower and flap away, carried by another frost tinged breeze. It must be late autumn then, and he shivered, felt the hair on him puff up in response.

In all honesty, it was a weird feeling.

Well, he decided, looking up to the sky and the still high sun, he had some time to spare before he ended the Shadow Queens little game. Might as well check the rest of what he had now, just for a distraction of course. 

He was not going to be some fun little puppet for her Majesty to watch. She'd have to try harder than that.

Maxwell raised up his, er, paws, wiggled and stretched what he could, and slowly but surely it was becoming more familiar, the memory of what individual fingers felt like fading as he huffed at his claws. Not nearly sharp enough in his opinion, and he closed his eyes, grinding his teeth in agitation.

And not to mention the odd, _sensation_ , was it? The weight of his ears on his head, flat, and then he raised his paws to feel them perk up, his own curiosity getting the best of him.

He hasn't touched a rabbit without the intention to eat it in awhile, has he? And the rabbits from before, back before all this, what had become of them he wondered?

A few given to the shadows, and Maxwell winced at that memory, ears flicking and escaping his grip. He brought his paws down with a sigh that sounded more of a huff, and that brought to mind something else.

_...And yet, I am still able to…?_

His voice tapered, quiet, and there was definitely something odd about speaking but not quite _feeling_ as if he was. He took a moment to feel up his, what, snout? 

Right, and the whiskers as well, and it made him wince and his eyes water, inadvertently poking his muzzle with his claws, but he did, in fact, have those teeth. Did she really go through such lengths to make this as authentic as possible?

He had no idea if he'd be so diligent himself. A lesser mind, Maxwell assured himself, would break down into a inconsolable panic in this situation, yet the Queen seemed to have seamlessly bonded mind and body together quite well.

_...Show off…_ He grumbled, glancing at the clear sky, and it was almost irritating, to flick his ears, enough for him to raise his paws and try to still them. 

Which just made it worse, since this was no human body and it worked differently and much more animalistically automatic. There did seem to be something missing, but he couldn't quite put his finger, er, claw on it.

Either way, Charlie's little project was most certainly going to go to waste. Rabbits were rather dumb beasts out here, though now he was one of them, and it would undoubtedly be a struggle to survive this world more fit for human survivability.

If he was a hard head like the rest of the pawns in this place. As if he was that gullible, or mind numbingly predictable.

_Try harder._

But, as Maxwell soon found, it wasn't that easy, just sitting and waiting. The sun sat in the sky as always, slowly making its way down, too slowly. The wind brought more cold, but only faintly, and he found himself puffing up and huddling down, the normal attempt to cross his arms about his chest now an almost automatic move to tuck them down, shuffling his feet as he got comfortable.

At least it was quiet, he thought, and when was the last time he had a moment to even sit in the sun like this?

One for him, nil to Charlie, Maxwell decided with some satisfaction. She may have made him like this, but now he was reaping the rewards and all she got to do was watch a rabbit doze off. How entertaining was that, huh?

But even with his thoughts keeping his attention, it was sort of boring. He could be patient, he could wait, but his ears perked up and he shuffled his paws, closing his eyes as he tried to pretend that he wasn't fighting the urge to “get going”.

Every revival had him moving, working no matter how distasteful it was, and now that he had the opportunity to just sit and rest he had the indescribable urge to do away with it all! But now he had to go through with his decision, Charlie was most certainly watching, and he couldn't be so weak willed as to back off from this challenge.

So Maxwell sat, and waited for night to come.

Or he would have, had a certain sound caught his attention.

He fought the urge to sit up and listen closer, ears twitching as he tried to identify the faint noise, but either way his heart rate sped up and something primal started to tense his limbs.

_...Wings?_

Wing beats, he realized at the last second, and they dipped a moment, as if drifting, and very suddenly Maxwell just couldn't take it anymore.

An image of talons and a hawk screech filled his mind with an undeniable terror that he shot open his eyes and blindly leapt for cover, a nearby tree and its shade. 

Being still foreign to this form, he did end up tripping and tumbling to a stop at its trunk, and for a moment he lay there just breathing, blinking away whatever the hell that instinctive mess was.

And catching sight of what appeared to be…

A red bird, landed upon the grass a few feet away, and giving him a rather odd, bird like look. It fluttered its wings in surprise when he pulled himself back up, getting his paws underneath him, but other than its size in comparison to him it seemed to be no threat.

And it figured that of him, turning away to peck at the ground instead.

A bird, of all things! To scare him off! 

Charlie must have sent it, knowing that having a fleshy rabbit brain would give him a disadvantage. Or, at least, that is how Maxwell decided to explain that mess of a panic. It had felt so alien, a blind fear, and he's never had many of those before this. 

Still, his heart was beating hard in his ears and he was panting, shivering, the exertion tapering off all too slowly. The event had terrified him, and it hadn't even been a life or death moment!

Hell, perhaps Charlie just wanted to see him die from sheer panic and shock! 

...Well, he wouldn't blame her. That was sort of entertaining to watch. But he was the one down here, so he now had a very focused aversion to such death, thank you very much!

A lot of people would argue with him on that, but Maxwell knew himself better than the lot of them, so he had the final say.

Even as a rabbit.

The red bird continued its search for seeds, not at all minding him, so Maxwell slowly got his breathing under control and made his way back out into the sun. Getting used to the slow hops and odd movements of his limbs made him hesitate, as falling over for a third time today would just be embarrassing, but it was starting to become more normal, more automatic now.

He had to remind himself that it wasn't normal, and that walking on two legs was what he preferred. The thought, coupled with his paws in the dirt and fur puffing up in response to the light chill, was an odd one.

The sun had dipped a bit, but it was taking a while.

And, he realized uncomfortably, grinding his teeth and wiggling his claws to dig in the dirt, he was getting a little peckish.

All that rushing about was catching up to him, and he's never been very thoughtful about food but the ugly ache in his belly was probably going to be worse in this smaller form. Perhaps that just meant he would need to eat less now?

Eyeing the red bird and its pecking about, after a moment he huffed a sigh and shuffled over, the bird quickly giving him a wide berth as he squinted at what it had been scavenging.

It took a bit of an attempt to remember that rabbits could actually _smell_ food. And it should work for him too, so Maxwell gathered his dignity and put his nose down, hesitantly sniffing about.

With his mind now focusing on this, absentmindedly listening as the bird continued its pecking obviously, the foreign feeling of understanding something nonhuman was a rather funny familiar one.

But shadows and darkness were not quite comparable to a rabbits senses, and Maxwell had to shove those thoughts away to concentrate on what he actually wanted.

Which was to find something to eat. To hell with Charlie, he was getting hungry.

And as if it would stop his plans! Let her have a day of staring at him, and then he'd end the game before it had even begun.

Day one, pah! Day zero, more like.

_Have fun with that._

Turned out that the bird had done away with most of the seeds, but he did end up finding a few unattended ones. Another odd thing to not think about, to eat without use of his hands and find his mouth not too different but enough from a human one, but they tasted about the same as always when uncooked.

He wondered if Charlie expected him to figure out how to cook like this, then remembered that rabbits did not, actually, have to cook things.

What else did rabbits eat besides the usual carrots and berries and other green things that he's watched them consume? Or was he reduced to this now, a diet hardly filling?

Sniffing and hopping about, still listening attentively, the black rabbit nosed about with what could be described as an almost distracted, disgusted look upon its face. The red bird gave it a good amount of space, eyeing it every once in awhile, still suspicious and cautious, before a passing butterfly caught its attention and it hopped after the thing, trying to catch its red and orange fluttering wings.

There was something rather different smelling from the rest of the grass and weeds, but it was also just a plant. Maxwell glared at it, scrutinizing the leaves as best as he could, even more irritated with the fact that he could feel his ears twitching, perking up.

Did he really lack this much control over himself?

He sniffed the plant a bit more, and wondered on if Charlie found this amusing in any way. If he was in her place, he was sure he wouldn't.

This was stupid, he decided, and Charlie was too, or at least lacking in imagination. 

...He didn't want to admit it, but Maxwell was feeling very moody about this whole thing now.

And the sun still was high in the sky, has barely moved at all! Time moved too slow.

He should've fixed that issue back when he still had control. Then there wouldn't be an issue now.


	16. Goggles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in August of 2019

Evening had been a short affair, a crimson dusk dipping low as the sun set, the last brief flash of light and swirled warm color, and then night swept in without so much as a whisper.

It was darker than what the mind could even imagine, outside the ring of fire light, a lasting barrier that flickered and crackled in embers and sparks, the greener wood spitting up the faint smoke signals. Nothing else out there, not even the sliver of the moon, no starlight, and yet there had been no clouds in the sky earlier in the day, crystal clear. Only the firepit, the round stones of its foundation, and the faint idle knitting of a straw mat, wrinkled old hands twisting thick grass and rope, halfway finished now.

The firelight glinted off of thick glass panes, the metal shine of goggle lenses, and outside of the ring the darkness swirled, drifted out of sight.

At least until the fires occupant took a break from his work to look out into the night.

"Ah, you there!" The old man set the half done rug down in his lap, raised a hand to adjust his goggles as he peered into the fog, and the shadows gave no answer. "Yes, you! I can see you, right there. Come, give an old man a visit, will you?"

For a moment, the swirling darkness gave off the feeling of extreme confusion. 

"Oh, don't make me have to ask twice. I have a few questions to ask, is all, I swear it won't take long." He waved his hand, gesturing to the night, and after a very long, very silent pause, there was movement.

Shadows swirled in smoke tendrils, slow drifting fog that dissipated in the fires light, yet then a silhouette formed, fading in from the dark itself, stepping just to the edge of the ring of light, just barely. The movement of a hand, a hiss of sound, and bright embers flared at the edge of a cigar, dark and just as shadowy as its user, and there was the shine of eyes, the briefest of sharp teeth. Smoke billowed from the mouth in a deep exhale, and shadows danced in faint twitches at the edges of the campfires light, but the old man looked far from worried.

"You have my attention." Said sharply, curt and flowing just as much as the shadows and their tendrils, and the Nightmare King stood before one of his many, many pawns, and for the moment gave him the briefest of his undivided attention.

As such, it was rather surprising to suddenly have the old man dart up in an instant, far faster than he looked, barely a moment passing before hands tugged the King rather unceremoniously out from the darkness and into the light.

"My, would you look at that!" The old man had a firm grip about a shadowy arm, raising it up and turning it to look about the hand, curved talons and pitch black skin scrawled up in an almost smooth formation, from exposed wrist up into the sleeves. "Combined perfectly, no blemishes or imperfections in sight. What a spectacular job!"

"W-what?!" Maxwell sputtered, a low shallow hiss as the shadows behind him sheared low in the light, flickering tendrils and disintegrating clawed hands, the fog suddenly deprived. The cigar seeped into smoke, billowing as he stared at the man who dared to even lay a hand upon him.

But, the old man looked as if he couldn't care less.

"Just look at this!" And then the fellow, still an almost death grip on the Nightmare Kings arm, held it out and pushed up his sleeve, examining the darkness that was swirled up well past the elbow, even farther up as he seemed to scrutinize the shadow skin. "No sign of any scarring, no discoloration even."

With that he was suddenly examining the talons, splaying claws and looking very, very closely over them, thin hands moving each finger and watching the joints, a light tap to each thin blade of pure darkness. His goggles made a few clicking noises, going so far as to zoom in even, as if to look for detail work.

"Practically perfectly merged, my good fellow!" He seemed overly pleased, goggles flashing as he turned that bug eyed expression up to the man he was currently examining like an ant under a glass. The grin leveled wasn't even a smidgen crooked, completely lucid and sane, and Maxwell for once felt caught like a rabbit in a snare, staring back. "No impurities, and seemingly no ill effects!"

And then he suddenly reached up and took the Nightmare Kings jaw in hand, tugging him down to have a closer look.

"But there is more to it than just cosmetics, of course. Now, how about you lean down a bit more, good fellow, let me have a look-"

**"Enough!"**

It was all but a snarl, a hissing garbled noise enunciated as the shadows curled close to their Kings feet, snaking in from the dark, encroaching the lights territories. Talons had snapped up, grabbed the old man by his wrists as the Nightmare King loomed overhead, darkened fog and smoke rising and snapping jaws before dissipating with silent screams, and finally, finally the pawn blinked back up and adopted the fear that Maxwell was far more familiar with.

For a moment, the shadows at his back encouraging and swirling in excitement, his pride came flickering back at the sight.

And then the old man blinked those stupid owlish bugged eyes and the fear was gone, just like that. Instead, it was cursed curiosity that filled its place, and the pawn wasn't even looking at him anymore, was peering over at the many slashing shadows that tumbled and withered behind him, risen from the ground, from the dark of night. He didn't even seem to mind the near crushing grip those talons hand on his arms, and his voice didn't even hold a stammer, nothing deterred whatsoever.

"That answers that then, doesn't it? Certainly a foreboding sight!" Maxwell narrowed his gaze, baring all too many sharp teeth, fangs as he hissed low, guttural, but the old man didn't seem to notice, or even care. "But all visual, an illusion, all glamor. Enough to certainly scare the socks off of anyone around, but that does not always indicate power, as I am sure you know."

Maxwells teeth grit, set on edge just by the withering shadows, that _feeling_ of a pawns little brain tick tocking along, cogs and gears ever grinding, and it was disturbingly familiar to another that he favored more often visits to. Playing favorites was not part of the job description, but neither was playing _fair._

His moment of distraction, headache threading up from the depths of this world, straight from where his real body lay right up to this illusion of himself, was enough for the old pawn before him to slip from his grip, undeterred by claws dragging lightly at his old, wrinkled skin.

"But enough about that!" He waved his hands, gestured passively as he looked up at the Nightmare King looming before him, and there was still not even a faint trace of madness in him, completely untouched by shadows. "I would introduce myself, but since you are who you are I'd expect you to know who, exactly, I am."

He seemed expectant, patient even, and Maxwell heaved a near non existent sigh, suddenly feeling very, very tired of this. The shadows were nipping at his heels, and he could swear that they were laughing, deep down under the worlds, surrounding him in their furls of smog and smoke.

They were, unfortunately, just as expectant; it would be quite rude to spoil Their fun, now wouldn't it?

And, of course, there was the threat of coiled chains about his wrists, tight to his chest, enough for even this illusion to feel it; They wanted something from this besides the usual.

Perhaps, while he certainly had his favored pawns, They played in much the same way. Gambling was not quite his vice, but They always did play good games. 

"...Wagstaff." The Nightmare King finally hissed, low and deep and threaded with the shadows echoes, darkness forming and talons sliding ever more cruelly, dangerously curved, but the old man instead looked quite pleased.

"Quite a pleasure to finally meet you, of course. I'll have you know, you have been the only one to accept my invitation!" With that, Wagstaff turned on his heel, hobbled back his fire, dwindling slowly down before he tossed a log into its depths. The energy of earlier seemed to have died low, simmering as he plopped himself down and took the half made grass rug back in hand, and he gave the Nightmare King a completely companionable, friendly smile, absolutely not what one should be giving in this sort of situation. "The other one in the dark, she's a bit shy, isn't she? Everytime I offer her a seat, she's more likely to try and put out the light!"

Maxwell stayed where he was, stiff, still, the shadows giggled laughter tensing his shoulders, mocking and sadistic, and while Their little voices taunted him it only took a moment to break free. The recognition of who the pawn was talking about was near instantaneous.

Before he could spit out something in answer, grinding his teeth and growing agitated, just at the mere mention of the other non shadows presence, Wagstaff pipped up once more, waving at hand at him.

"Come, my good fellow, sit by the firelight! I wouldn't want to have to shout, with you being all the way over there."

The shadows giggled at his back, withering and worming Their way about, entirely all too amused by one of Their most favorites of pawns, and after a moment the Nightmare King hissed another sigh, felt the prod of shadow hands nudging him forward, and made his way over. If he wasn't King, he'd have dragged his feet, and if he wasn't being so watched by blind bleach eyes out in the darkness, Their two favorites acting out the play just for Them, then he'd have reverted to a more well known plan of action.

Violence, with the Thrones powers, was heavily satisfying at times, but right now he was being coaxed along against his will. Maxwell would rather not, but he had no say to the main forces of what the board wanted.

And what they wanted, he felt, thought deep down in the darkness tied to the Throne, was variation. Stagnation was not all that They wished for, after all.

Which was why there was the plateau in the first place, or even the islands and its volcano. 

And all he could do was play along.

There was, apparently, a bit of foresight on Wagstaff's part; about the fire were two other mats, just as yellowed and dry as the next, but set out for visitors. The Nightmare King sneered, a hint of satisfaction that _this_ man would most certainly _not_ be allowed to meet any other under his rule, but it still struck him that his presence had even been anticipated.

If he didn't know any better he'd find it commendable; in actuality, Wagstaff has been putting these out near every night, trying to coax the Grue out for a talk or two. 

Conversation, nowadays, was not her forte. An unfortunate change that he did not dwell upon often, if at all.

The pawn looked up at him expectantly, still twisting and tying up another of his straw mats, completely at ease with the low activity that now circled his fire, shadowy hands and tendrils slipping into foggy outlines from the darkness, more following in Maxwells shadow.

Crossing his legs, the feeling of sitting sending an unhealthy amount of irritation up his spine, an unnerving match to what plagued his more sound body constantly, the Nightmare King leveled a very displeased look upon the old man sitting across from him.

Wagstaff even had the audacity to smile at him.

Maxwell scowled back, and his shadows spread from the firelight withered and tore up the ground, the low silent ambience of something other crawling about. If he focused, he'd even feel _her_ crawling about, pacing circles about in the night, waiting.

What he could not gather, however, was whether she was watching him, or just hungry. Perhaps both.

Still, he was King, not some ill mannered imbecile, so Maxwell straightened up and let the scowl fade off, turning more thinly neutral, to stare unblinkingly at the pawn who so brazenly wanted his attention.

Said pawn looked quite fine with this situation, at least mentally at any rate. Positive outlooks did nothing for when the environment gets a little more harsh, and the old man was thinner than he had been when he had first arrived. His acute focus earlier had left him, and now as he worked his hands shook minutely, wrinkled face sunken and hollow. The goggles hid his face well, though it certainly looked as if his hairline was receding a bit more; hair loss was a by product of constantly skirting starvations edge. 

Wagstaff, as many pawns before, and soon to be after him, suffered under the Constants ways.

It was immensely satisfying to see his worlds impact, and Maxwell folded his hands in his lap and let a thin smirk pull at his shadowy images features.

The dark shadows connecting him to the night away from the firelight withered and silently hissed, whispered. Perhaps They, too, found satisfaction in seeing a job going well.

"You've been here for quite awhile, pal. I trust you have been faring well?"

Those goggles had firelight dancing across them, as the old man lifted his head to look across the fire. The grass mat was just about done, his hands stilling in his lap, and Maxwell narrowed his eyes as They giggled about the fire, eyes watching from the dark surrounding it all.


	17. Bees knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in October of last year

The buzzing of the bees filled the air as the clouds rolled their way across the sky, dark and pitted and growing ever larger the longer the morning drew on. The last rain had soaked the hives and the grasses and the entire meadow itself, and now it soaked into Wendy's cloths and hair as she laid in the middle of everything.

It was a busy highway, the lives of these elephantine insects, and with the regal crown set upon her head she idly watched them drift by with their business, nectar and honey and pollen coating their undersides, the gaunt razor of their stingers shining slick from the overproduction of venom. Spring was going along well, and the hives were very busy.

The faint ghostly whispers and murmurs of her sister told her enough, but Wendy did not raise herself up, did not make any attempt at leaving the ticking bomb that were the bees, unsuspecting of her true nature but only for now. Soon they may see through this clever disguise, and then…

Well.

Abigail muttered something nearby, a tint of her ghostly shadow dulling in the rolls of ectoplasm before shaping into something almost discernable, and she twisted and turned her head to tilt to her sister but all Wendy did was raise her hands and pull down the crown some more, to cover her vision and sight. Her sister had voiced her concerns earlier, and then hummed and whispered, not daring to get too close and enrage the mob of bees going every which way.

Wendy waited, at the center of things, and some of them had taken to crawling on her skirt, flappy paws and stick insect claws as they rustled about, their honey yellow colors offset now by deep crimson red hues.

She closed her eyes and waited.

Abigail hummed something unhappily, a hint at a tease before it drifted away. Wendy did not answer.

The clouds above were clearing a bit, brightening up as the storms rolled elsewhere for now, and idly she wondered on how her gardens were doing. It had flooded the farms, the attempts at irrigation destroyed by the ferocity and strength of the flood waters, and her flower gardens must be no different.

She expected as much, no matter how much anyone else ever predicted otherwise. Even Wx78 had come plodding back to camp last night, sodden and rusting and spitting up sparks, agitated at the loss of their dark flower gardens to the unruly weather. The adults talked amongst themselves, but Wendy listened; bad storms this season, a heavy spring, possibly full monsoons, and someone had even brought up how particular the rainometer was being, that perhaps the moons shattered landing was an upset and the far more frequent earthquakes underground may just be a forewarning to what was ahead-

Wendy thought about all that, for a little while, and Webber had twittered and chittered and tried asking her questions on what some of the words meant but she wasn't really in the mood to give them an answer, so they had instead went off to find Wurt. 

Like they always did, when Wendy wasn't humoring them.

Abigail hummed, a hint of exasperation in her tone, but Wendy ignored her. It wasn't as if Wendy could _force_ Webber to stay with her. They can go play with someone else if she was boring them.

Abigail whispered again, and Wendy almost had the mind to give her answer before there was a much louder buzzing and she realized one of the bees had landed upon her crown.

It shifted about, wings vibrating and making the inside echo throughout the dark recesses of this giants torn open skull, but after a moment of exploration it got bored and buzzed on. When Wendy brought a hand up to brush the crowns surface, her fingers came away sticky and golden.

The honey tasted good nonetheless, and she laid there for a little bit, Abigail quiet now as she sucked on her fingers and lifted the crown enough to watch the worker bees flit about once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to fulfill a story request from someone, but I...lost the motive and energy. I apologize for that.


	18. monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in September of last year

The cave was quiet when Wilson entered it.

Silence, a low hum of ambience he has come to associate to the Constants life breath, and he had to duck under the entrance, high hanging stalactites and the lower, duller mounds of stalagmites that he easily scooted on by, and this wasn't the official entrance but it was a shortcut he found days ago. Made things easier for him, when the path led directly to where he needed to be.

He didn't have to walk far, venture deep to find what he was looking for; a low dragging sound, a shuffle of rocks and pebbles moving under alerted weight, and then the softer glow of eyes out in the muggy darkness. 

Wilson carefully lowered his lanterns light, enough to illuminate a shallow circle around him yet keep from being so blinding, and then proceeded to set it down by one of those lingering stalagmites, the rippled edges of stone evidence of mineral deposits and timelines that he had no interest in or for. 

It was not the rocks in these odd tunneled caves, ones that drilled deep in convoluted twists and turns, that held his interest, not at all.

Wilson rose his gaze, straightened up, and those pale, shadow infused eyes stared at him right back, just on the edges of the lanterns shed light.

"I'd have accompanied you if you had asked me to, you know."

Silence came as an answer in of itself, and the slightest shuffle, a glowing faint gaze drifting, looking away from him.

"...Eventually someone's going to find you like this, and it would be better if I was around to help." At the near muffled grumbled huffed at him, the faint sound of pebbles being brushed away and that even more unnerving noise of creaking, cracking bones and harsh wheezing, Wilson just rolled his eyes, interrupting as he crouched down and swung the pack on his shoulders to the ground, digging within it. "And yes, I know all about what happened last new moon. You scared Wickerbottom quite badly."

More mumbling, complaints, and Wilson finally settled himself down to the rocky cave ground, pulling out a few items before reaching over and brightening up the lantern just a tad bit more.

"You should be thankful that Wigfrid doesn't remember what killed her; she very much wanted to hunt the 'vicious night beast' after she came out of her effigy." 

That just spurred on a snort, a heaving sigh, and the silence between them spread for a few quiet minutes as Wilson started to set up a small contained fire off to the side.

When it was finally broken he paused, rose his gaze to meet the glowing ones watching him idly from the faint light the lamp offered.

"...What...are you...doing?"

The voice opposite of him had lost its timbre, was exhaled in a rugged hush that sounded more distortedly overlayered, less human and more...somewhat musical in nature, but Wilson was used to it by now. 

He's done this a few times, long new moon nights spent less by the fireside with the others and more out near caves or dark places of the forest, hidden groves and niches in cliffs. It has never been asked of him, never a request for his company, but Wilson could see when his presence was needed, especially in dire circumstances.

And, unfortunately, Maxwell was in a very unpleasant situation.

"I'm making tea, what does it look like I'm doing?" The other made a low grumbling sound, might have been a growl actually, but Wilson was focused on carefully handling the teapot and cups he had borrowed from Wickerbottom earlier tonight. These weren't the lopsided clay creations made for everyday camp use; the kettle and tea cups had been dug up from graves, cleaned and repaired by more experienced hands than his own, Wes had done some precise work on the paint and glazing, and Wilson has sworn to return them in the morning without a single scratch or crack to grace the pristine material.

The threat that was laced with the pleasant agreement to lend it to him was made very, very clearly, and Wilson made sure to treat these pieces with care. 

"You said mandrake helps a bit, right? I was talking to Warly this morning, and he suggested adding honey might help with pain."

"...He...knows?"

The dark silhouette shifted, sat down just barley outside the ring of light and watching him with tired glowing eyes, voice grumbled out with a hint of strain, dryness to it, but Wilson was already shaking his head.

"No, I just asked him about it in a general sense. So far it's only Wickerbottom and Webber-"

"And...Wes…" 

Maxwell's interruption was met with a frown from Wilson, eyes narrowing as he wracked his brain for any memory of the sort, but then the dark shadow shook its head in a slow, sluggish few twists.

"It's...nothing to...concern you, Higgsbury-"

The deep rasp ended with a rugged clicking, pitched oddly and almost whistled out, before the shadow curled in on itself for a moment and the quiet was filled in by deep chested coughing.

Wilson carefully set the cups to the side, getting up and minding both lantern and fires faint circle of light, it wouldn't do either of them good if he got caught in the dark, and he moved slow but steady, eyes finally adjusting enough to see the more...jarring details.

Hard to tell if it was feathers or fur, the shadows moved in a smooth, soft line, in bristles and hackles, and twig thin limbs were stretched, blackened skin pasted to sharp bone in a nightmarish fashion that just got worse with the wicked claws at the end, and it wasn't quite reminiscent of the monster Wilson had seen near the end of the Constants chaptered worlds but the imagery was fairly close in detail.

The shadow fur feathers puffed in a greasy mane about the neck, similar to a buzzard or vultures, but there wasn't enough light to fully view what the new moon magics had done to the face, the packed in fanged teeth and hollow sagging skin, only those glowing dull shadow eyes, and the former Nightmare King had wrapped his arms about himself as he shuddered, wheezing for air and choking it up in coughing gags.

Wilson had already tugged out one of his handkerchiefs by the time the wash of nightmare fuel came up, splattered the ground and those wicked talons before he was there to help, and while Maxwell has not once verbally thanked him for the help the fact that the distorted shadow leaned against him afterwards, tall and long and a mass of stick thin limbs and sharp fangs and heaving, trembling breath, told him enough. The first few times he's accompanied, or more like _found_ the other man when he was in this state there had been a certain amount of space kept between each other, and an even more certain sense of danger in their interactions.

But Wilson's role in this has changed now; he wasn't just some bystander, witness as the old man suffered whatever this transformation brought. Maxwell's frame of mind during these times made him somehow much more mellow, so at this point lending a hand didn't spark some argument or hostile reaction and more of an apathetic attitude.

Once the fit had fully ceased, and the silk cloth was thoroughly coated in the thick nightmare fuel that had somehow entangled into those old bones and veins to cause such a change, Wilson balled it up with only a minor hint of disgust at the damp and tossed it over to the side. He'd throw it into the fire, but nightmare fuel smelled when it burned and the scent was already so thick in the chilly air that he'd rather not make it worse.

"You didn't tell me Wes knew." He paused, listened to the wet rattle and faint whistle of each struggling breath, the feeling of shadow feather fur brushed up, leaned against him, soft and greasy and leaving a faint hint of pins and needles into his side. "I could have asked him to come along, if I had known-"

"No-" There was a hiss, almost a snarl before cutting off into a shudder, and Maxwell had curled into himself, shadows flared up in puffed up hackles and furs, but he still didn't lean away off of Wilson. "N...no, I...don't want  
..anyone here…"

Wilson quieted at that, for a few minutes at least, and the small fire crackled to itself, the small space of cave illuminated and dull and ugly in comparison to the far clearer forests outside. He's noticed, of course, that as of late the former Nightmare King has been hiding out in the earth more than the woods, which may have been caused by the violent run in a while back.

He hadn't realized Wigfrid had died due to Maxwell, not until he had stumbled upon the man hours later, the morning leaving him a trembling weak mess after the transformation had left him.

It hadn't taken away the blood staining his teeth, or the severe nausea and sickness afterwards. Cruel shadows or not, raw cannibalism can do a number on a weak stomach and while Wilson had tried to tell him off for actually _eating_ the corpse, the old man had barely remembered the night at all and was rather horrified at the prospect that he had murdered and then eaten someone in the first place.

Which was the true reason Wilson tracked him down each new moon, giving him company and staving off any of the more ignorant survivors. He did not want to think of some future happenstance where he'd need to put himself in danger between one of the others and Maxwell, and he also didn't want to think of what would happen if the old man lost it and lashed out at anyone if under that kind of stressful situation.

Moving a bit slow, careful, Wilson raised his hand and curled his arm around the feather shadow expanse of Maxwell's back. He could feel his every haggard breath, and the fluffing give of the shadow texture, and for all the puffing up this monstrous form could do it was mostly all for show. The stretched height came with added clumsiness, weak limbs that shook under lacking weight, and as distorted and rather intimidating Maxwell may seem right now Wilson also knew he could easily pick him up and carry him about.

Not quite light as a feather, but more hollow as a bird and far sharper and dangerous. If Wigfrid had been at even footing and it hadn't been night, Wilson was already certain of who would have won a fair fight.

Then again, ambush seemed to be more in the old man's nature. That, or just plain running away.

His own claws, bone talons, slid through the shadowy fur feathers, as he kept a firm pressure in both his presence and his touch, and the fact that Maxwell shivered out a low, quiet sigh told him that at least this time around he had most of his mental facilities. 

Sometimes Wilson followed him and found only darkness and fanged shadows at the end to greet him. No attacks, but he's sat by fires under the new moon and waited out the transformation as it sent the former Nightmare King into a tizzy of hissing and pacing and snarling outside the firelight.

He didn't remember any of it in the morning, but Wilson was appreciative enough on not being bitten once so that was a plus. Maxwell was always too tired out afterwards to be stubborn, and usually took a few days to come back around after such a hard hit on his mental wellbeing, as unstable as Wilson knew that it was.

After a few minutes, listening as that rattled breathing slowly evened out into something that was more faintly whistled than strained, Wilson gave the other man a light pat on the shoulder, carefully pulling away as the shadows withdrew and Maxwell straightened back up with a fluffed up shudder. This time, when he turned his attention back to the fire and pristine, only slightly chipped kettle, the shadow behind him followed.

The better lighting didn't cut through the darkness that had cast over the other man, distorted his form and made him look more monstrous than usual, but it did dim the glow of his eyes and made the oily, shined greasy nature of the nightmare fuels, of living shadows in general, much clearer to see now. Wilson tried to not let his gaze linger on the claws reminiscent of the living shadows of Them; he wasn't one of those that had went to bury Wigfrids body that morning, but from Wolfgang's unnerved talk later it had not been a pretty sight. 

As Wilson busied himself with the tea, taking a waterskin from his backpack and filling it, then fiddling with the setup of thickened sticks that would hang the kettle and set the water to boil, the constant ambience of those shadows filtered through the caves, soft and shuffling and as hesitant as ever. He knew if he glanced over he'd see Maxwell curled in on himself, stick shadowed limbs pulled in tight and those glowing eyes empty and almost blinded, so similar to the living shadows and Them that it still gave him a sense of unease. 

He could take a very easy guess about these transformations, where they must have originated from, but Maxwell was rather tight lipped when it came to talking about it. The other survivors of the Constant already knew well enough about lycanthropy, Woodie was a prime example, but the former Nightmare King did not have a form that brought to mind familiarly shaped beasts. 

If something like him was to appear in camp without forewarning or explanation, Wilson was fairly certain it would be met with quite a lot of hostility, and perhaps some excess violence. 

With the water set over the fire, as centered as he could get it anyhow, Wilson went about pulling out the mandrake he had brought along, as well as the small leather pouches full of forget-me-lot petals. The weed was more helpful for stress, it helped ease the mind, not the pain, but he was hoping mixing the two together might do some good. Maxwell may be in his right mind right now, but in another few hours Wilson couldn't be sure if the shadows would drag him out into the darkness, confused and a hint aggressive at the lights presence. He didn't want to stretch out the night, or make it worse for the morning after.

The mandrake root had to be refined a bit, plucking the leaves and using the razor within his pack to carefully slice it up. He didn't have any form or substitute of a strainer, not yet anyways, but thankfully both mandrake and forget-me-lots were edible; Wilson took the two cups and dumped a fair amount of mandrake into one, then divided the forget-me-lots between both. He didn't exactly _need_ tea right now, but he has been traveling in the dark of night and Maxwell was an amalgamation of shadow oily horror at the moment, so he wouldn't turn up his nose to something that he knew would ease his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <~<; if you recognize this version of monster Maxwell from somewhere no you don't ;>~>


	19. Nightmare amulet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in September of 2018

“Will you just-”

The sword hummed in his hands, almost contentedly with the snicker-snack of its hissing blade, and he was angry, furious, he didn't know why but the rage bubbled up like froth in his chest and he-

“-calm yourself, for God's sake!”

The Amulet was pulled off of his neck in one smooth motion, unbalancing him and very suddenly the shadow swords handle latched onto his skin and grew impossibly heavy, blade digging into the dirt as he heaved for breath.

Wilson glared at him, face screwed up and furrowed with irritation, and then he held up the jewelry in his fist, the purple gem inside cracked and dull compared to its earlier luster.

“This-” he snarled, rage glaring up at him in dark stormy eyes, bared teeth, “-is not helping anyone! Look what you've done to the trees!”

He threw out his empty hand, claws pointing to the pines and the once a thicket that surrounded them, and he was still trying to catch his breath, try to quell the left over shivers and dulled colors around him, but he did see what Wilson meant.

The shadow sword, limp in his hand and deep in the earth now, had left its mark; tree trunks rose with broken branches strewn about, slices in bark and felled twiggy trees, and even without the Amulet looking at the scene gave him a slight, quick thrill of bitter rage.

But that quickly fades, too quickly, and he didn't even know why he had been so angry in the first place.

“Not to mention-” Wilson's voice dropped, interrupted as the short man sucked in a tense breath of air, looking away to the other side of the new clearing, “-you scared Webber.”

Oh.

He still felt weak, drained, but looking over solemnly to see the spider child watching, looking as if they had hidden behind a slashed up tree trunk, was what really hammered in reality.

With the silence growing thick, Wilson avoiding looking at anyone and his own gaze sliding to the scuffed up ground, he drew in a shaky breath, insides empty and hollow. The Amulet in Wilson's hands stayed limp, lifeless, gem gone dark as his eyes fell upon it.

So much for that, then.

With his own sigh, shoulders falling, he carefully let go of his hold on the sword, dismissing it with a limp wave of his hand, and the shadows melted and drifted away, gone now.

“My…” his own voice croaked, grimacing as he rubbed his throat and tried to soothe the sore pain, having not realized that he had to be a little quieter. Not talking as often as he used to seemed to have lasting effects, unfortunately. 

“My apologies. I...hadn't meant for that.”

“And what, exactly, had you meant then?!” Wilson swung a heavy scowl up at him, hands going to his hips, the lifeless Amulet twisting in his grip. “Use this up where no one can see you, damage the environment, oh please tell me what it was you even intended!”

The stout man hissed in an angry breath, fit to bursting as he narrowed his eyes, not even fazed by the apathetic silence that answered back.

“Then I can plan for it next time, hell I'll put in my schedule, the annual “Maxwell steals off with my shit, has a nervous breakdown”, right? And then-” his voice was climbing, an angry pitch, and in the corner Webber curled their limbs close, eyes looking back and forth between the two men anxiously.


	20. Afterthoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in August of 2018

“Oh you get back here, you little-”

“Hehehe, we're a piggy!”

Webbers shrieks of delight rang through the air, hopping and leaping away from the dulled claws trying to catch up to them. One leap had them rolling in the dirt, limbs wiggling as they scrambled away, the baggy Hallows Eve costume scuffing in the dust and making them have to pull it up as it sagged from their legs.

Even though Wilson wasn't a very big man, the pigman costume still didn't fit on Webber at all and the ears were sliding on their head, limbs attempting to keep them still as they squealed and oinked in excitement, tinged with spider whistles and sound.

They dodged Wilson's attempt to catch them, jumping out of the way, and caught a glimpse of Wendy watching from the surrounding trees, seated and looking a little bored. Webber churred out a shrill greeting, waving frantically over to their friend, her taking a moment to idly wave back and make them jitter in excitement.

While they were distracted, however, Wilson crept up behind them and picked them in one swift movement, their weight not enough to deter the short man.

“Got you, you little rascal! What do you think you’re doing, stealing away with people's clothing?” 

Webber laughed, wiggled about in his grip, limbs and mandibles waving about as they kicked their legs and warbled spider sound in their giggles.

“We're gonna be a piggy for Hallows Eve!” They couldn't look at him from their position, Wilson still keeping them up and from escaping, but they poked at his arms holding them and attempted to adjust their sliding ear band. “You get to be the bat this time, Mister Wilson!”

“Well, who decided that then?” Wilson carefully set their feet on the ground, let them race in place as they attempted to wiggled out of his firm grip. “No one informed me I’m gonna be a bat this year.”

“We decided this time!” Webber giggled spider sound, the short man finally loosening his grip and letting them slide out of his grasp. They hopped away, twirled and almost tripped on the sagging costume, grabbing the thick fabric with their talons and tugging it back up on them. “Mister Wilson the Batilisk, and us, Webber the Piggyman!”

“Is that so?” Wilson tapped his chin, still smiling as he tried to look serious. “I don't quite know if being a bat would fit on me. I can't wear the wings as well as you.”

He watched as they attempted to gain control over their sagging costume, the pig ear band sliding back down their face.

“And I don't know if being a pig would fit on you either. You're ears seem a bit big, Webber, they keep wanting to fall off!”

Webber giggled, mandibles and limbs twitching as they pushed the band back up, or at least tried to. They weren't big enough just yet; maybe in another year their bristly fur would be thick enough to keep the costume from slipping right off of them.

Having not paid any attention, trying to tug up the saggy pants and wiggle their clawed feet in the funny fake hoof shoes, Wilson was able to pick them up again, this time balancing them on his hip as he looked around.

“Maybe I can ask Wickerbottom to shorten it a bit, or make a new costume altogether. You'll not be able to hold all your candy if you keep tripping up on your costume.” Webber chittered at that, the sudden realization that balancing both their costume _and_ bags of candy might be a little hard, but then Wilson perked up, turning as he caught sight of Wendy and raising a hand in greeting.


	21. Claws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in November of 2019

Wilson couldn't quite remember when it had happened, the how or why of it all. Once upon a time, he knew he had perfectly normal hands, fingers and nails and skin. 

Once upon a time, Wilson P. Higgsbury had been so assured of his own humanity, and he had never considered he'd lose that.

Now, now when he awoke in the mornings, or stayed up all night on watch, morning light searing away nights shadows and the Grue's ever haunting presence, now the twisted visage of his own claws were the only waking nightmares to not ever leave.

They were stiff, terrible things, near enough monstrous to even drain his own sanity if he wasn't careful. His now blackened skin had gone clammy, cold and numb at times, a general lack of feeling that had, at first, been the biggest distraction. Worrying over severing the wrong wires, scratching up metal or chipping too soft gold, the very work his mind ticked along that kept him tethered to sanity became a struggle, a harrowing experience as he tried to keep it together on his lonesome.

So many deaths, all attributed to an inability to adapt to the blasted abominations that were now his hands. He was willing to admit, at times, that some were his fault; talons so sharp, and still so unfamiliar, gave him more facial scars, itching wounds than he never expected of himself. Forgetting these...unnatural biological weapons he now had gave him a fair amount of pains.

The best way he decided to describe that period of time, Wilson thought through, was that he had a few growing pains. Cursed with amnesia and the cluster fuck-you of the Constant's chaos, being alone as he had been gave him more than enough time to try and learn through it.

And he had, obviously. One could not survive for long if one's own body was bringing about death with every mistaken automatic itch. Wilson found that he did not have time for that illogical chaos that came with unsteady solitude and his own fragile willpower; the Constant had given him one good out of being dragged here, and he had taken it as quickly as he had recognized it.

Adapting, even to such monstrous changes, had taken time and effort, but adapt Wilson had. This world gave him the ability to work through the curse it had inflicted upon him in the first place.

Still, this did not ease the sheer frustration of all that he himself enjoyed. Science was all the harder to achieve with inflexible talons of bone. He made do, and over time working a science machine or a more complicated alchemy machine became second nature, even with the gnarled bone talons that had long replaced his fingers.

Dulling them down a bit helped; after he started grinding them Wilson found he didn't have as many near misses when it came to itching his eyes too carelessly. It was awfully inconvenient, and dreadfully uncomfortable as well, but it got the job done and he found himself having more control over his fine motor skills. 

Still a bit stiff, but not as bad as it had first been.

Now, even with lingering amnesia and reincarnation fog, Wilson did remember a time where his talons were...a bit of a larger issue than his own personal comforts. The other human survivors still had their physical humanity, after all.

Those first meetings had started off a bit rocky, with a bit of being tied up, accused of being a spy, and then almost burned alive in a flaming tree, but Wilson tried to not think about it all too often. His claws had been marks of perversion, nightmarish curses that had unnerved the others, and he tried to not judge them on the possibly, er, cruel things they've done due to their fear.

It was a good thing the Constant liked erasing his memories so often then! He would much rather _not_ remember just how cruel humans can be to each other, and even more so when something was not quite right with an individual.

His time before here was full of holes and gaps, but the little he did remember had a fine selection of such examples; he could be thankful for a little forgetfulness every now and then.

In the end, Webber was the only one completely unfazed by the situation. The child, after all, has been through a few harrowing experiences in similar troubles before; Wilson has sat with them many a night, let them huddle up to his side by the campfire or even in his tent as they warbled spider sound and stuttered dreams, nightmares that plagued their young mind. He couldn't help much, he didn't know how, but him listening always seemed to help and he knew more of Webber than he would have without their trust.

If that made him a little protective of the kid, it was his own business. Webber was a child of horrible curses, while Wilson was an adult in a similar situation.

He did his best to ensure they had as normal a life as they could in the Constant.

So, after a fair bit of juggling the suspicions of the others, and that slow, steady crawl into being trustworthy, being worth something to the camp, and even doing what he thought impossible, Wilson had real, actual _friends._

He didn't remember ever having any before this harsh place.

His claws became a background knowledge, familiarity setting in and the everyday work of grinding them down dull and near smooth automatic, sort of like trimming his beard when it grew a hit unruly. Even with this physical abnormality of his, Wilson was part of something now and no one gave a damn if he had monstrous claws or not.

Well...almost no one.

Obviously, it was Maxwell of all people who had an interest in his bone talons.

At first Wilson had assumed his curse had been inflicted on him by the former Nightmare King himself. He had thought that there could be no denying it, that one day out of the blue his nightmares scrawled upon his own flesh and so suddenly he bared talons instead of calloused fingers. Only a cruel ruler and tormentor of the Constants planes of existence could have done such a terrible thing to him after all!

Except, Maxwell had no knowledge on _why_ Wilson sported these new, dark additions. His questioning on it went to dead ends, and for the longest time Wilson was left unsure and ever more suspicious of the older man for it.

At least until Wilson actually got to catch a glimpse of the former Kings own hands, uncovered by old leather gloves. A run in with the hounds, mixed up in a mild rush in a swamp and some very aggravated mermfolk, had gotten the pair of them stuck far from camp and with very little medical supplies. 

Maxwell had mixed the regreants and worked it all into a fine paste while Wilson had busied himself with bandaging and silk gauze wraps, taking care to clean his wounds and take note of any injuries on his companion. The both of them had to be able enough to get back to camp in the morning, and fixing up slashes from tentacles and bites from vicious hounds, not to mention the bruises of too rough merms had been top priority.

One such fishy person had shoved him into a spiky tree, sinking in knee deep muck and awakening a tendril lurking the surface waters, and one of his legs stung terribly, the mud and mess of the swamp having coated the injury for as long as it took for them to get out of there, and even as he rolled up his trousers and grit his teeth at the sharp teeth marks that had grazed his back it was harrowing to think of how much bending he'd have to do to reach and sanitize it all.

The old man hadn't been much better off, having been grabbed by a rather large pack leader and shaken about, tossed into a merm house and still sporting what was probably a concussion and some vague dizziness, his own blood staining his jacket along with the mud that had both helped stop his bleeding and ensured a future infection, but the both of them were fairly used to some of the extremes of this world.

Wilson was just used to the situation; Maxwell just had a high pain tolerance.

Either way, the other man's gloves were dirtied and they had to do their best, as of that moment, to treat their wounds with what little they had. Spider glands and leftover ashes mashed together was antiseptic enough for now, and Wilson was resigned to a terribly long, painful night, before afterwards there would be a terribly long, painful walk back to camp.

He had struggled to dress his leg, still bleeding and fighting through the pain, hoping he didn't have to stitch himself up as he tried to clean the area with silk and his own salty stressed tears.

And then Maxwell had huffed something at him, strained with laced pain and a distracted, dizzy tone, and with that had wobbled over, pulled off his gloves, and turned his attention to fixing up Wilsons leg.

He would have been more surprised if he hadn't been in so much dizzying pain.

There had been some sort of offhanded remark, of not wanting to carry Wilson around if his legs failed, but all his attention could focus on, scattered as it was by lacing agony, was the sheer fact that _Maxwell_ sported some dark, curled mockeries of fingertips.

They were blackened, dyed dark crimson with Wilson's blood and the pink of the glands, and in all the pain fog of leftover adrenaline and tense flinching all Wilson could do was stare. The older mans hands shook, and his face was twisted in his own pain, but the numb stinging of the salve finally bit through and Wilson had the surging curious strength to reach out and snatch one of the man's hands up to examine.

His own self preserving nature took a backseat as he had stared, holding brittle, wrinkled hands with spotting thin skin and hardened claw fingertips in between his own bone talons, and to say he wasn't a bit bewildered would be an understatement.

Maxwell had not reacted all that favorably to the sudden attention, especially while still in a certain amount of pain.


	22. Talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in January of last year

Wrinkling her nose, taking a deep snorting breath as the flames licked at her skin and enveloped her legs in warm fiery blankets, Willow wiped her runny nose with her wrist and made a face as the flames hissed and dissipated the snot and mucus.

Willow absolutely hated getting sick, but her dumb body didn't ever seem to get the message. Wintery fall winds didn't help either, and she rubbed her arms as the flames flickered about her, crackling charcoal and ash underneath her, blackened wood with pulsing hot embers warmly pressed to her legs.

Snorting again, one nostril clogged and her throat a bit raw, Willow curled her hands in the warm ashes and idly spread it over her legs, chunks of glowing ember wood to help bury her toes in warmth.

A few feet from the fire, next to one of the log benches, were the clothes she had tossed off before diving for the fires embrace.

Almost everyone has already gone to bed, free from illness and getting rest, but as if Willow gave a shit if they were awake or not to see her. And anyway, it was better she keep her clothes out of the fires hungry reach; stained as they were, she didn't want anymore blackened holes eating through the fabric.

So Willow sat, legs crossed under her, ash and glowing charcoal piled over her knee down to, her ankles and toes, letting the fire soothe the ache soft today from her naked body.

Honestly, if Wickerbottom wasn't such a mean old prude Willow would do this more often. Unfortunately she's already gotten chewed out on being "indecent" in front of the kids, so Willow took to laying in the firepit at night, once everyone had passed out.

Well, not _everyone._

Willow eyed the two men talking quietly to each other by the alchemy machine, mild frown on her crooked face as she rested her cheek in her hand, elbow on her knee. The flames licked at her legs, about her belly and bottom, and it was warmer here than even the stupid tents, but she was pretty sure those two were getting cold.

It would probably snow soon. Willow hated thinking about that.

Their murmuring conversation seemed to come to an end, shorter man setting aside a blueprint to the worktable, a shake of his greasy head. 

All that gross hair, and that stupid beard, but Willow begrudgingly knew he'd be far warmer than her in winter mornings. Stupid scientist, with his stupid looking head and facial hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...you will not believe how much I wanted to finish this one. How much I wanted to write, of Willow talking about Things with Wilson, discussing stuff, relations and connections and the whole shebang.
> 
> ...but I lost motive, energy, and now the rest of it is stuck half forgotten in my head and this is all that will survived.


	23. Oh what a worm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in December of 2017.
> 
> The oldest story I still have available that is both read worthy, and unfinished.

“Having a nice time, are we?”

Steps behind him, light and airy and unhurried, and Maxwell scowled as he checked under the rabbit trap, ignoring the sudden intrusion for a moment as he carefully swept a hand underneath it. 

“The hounds haven't been bothering you, have they?”

Nothing. Traps haven't been working as well as they used to, but he supposed he should be blaming the wear on them, not the rabbits or his bait. Even the wind, with the slightest hint of a breeze, could knock one over and render itself useless for the day.

Standing up in one fluid motion, trap in hand, still not turning around to acknowledge his visitor, Maxwell huffed a sigh. It would be nice, to eat meat again.

“I have done the honors of doing away with them, rendering your survivability a little more probable.”

“I've noticed.” Maxwell growled the words out, glaring at nothing in the distance. It was hard, to not crush the grass made trap in his hands, but it would be even harder to make another one. Besides, he didn't think his shaking hands had the strength for even that, so instead he casually stuffed it into the bag at his side, almost completely filled with grass and twigs.

“Well then, everything should be a breeze for you.” 

Light hopped steps around him, close, full of confidence, and Maxwell had to keep himself from swinging around and brandishing one of his weapons at the fool. As if an ice or fire staff could even touch a Shadow Kings illusion; all that would do would cause animosity between them and damage his resources, not to mention waste the magic.

Still, the nagging idea of slapping the idiot across the face was a tempting one.

“Yet...I have noticed a decrease in your productivity.”

Wilson swept up from behind him, the markings of royalty hanging off his shoulders and clothing him a dark shadow made suit, and the man cocked his head and smirked up at Maxwell.

Guess he still hasn't realized he could change his physical attributes when manifested outside the Throne Room.

“So why, may I ask-”

There was a hint of a growled “No you may not” in the back of Maxwell's throat, a hitch in his breath as he glared as best as he could down at the new King, but he cut it off and proceeded to just scowl in silence. He didn't need things to get harder than they already were.

“-have you been faltering so drastically in this life?”

Wilsons smile dipped at the edges, a hint of disappointment on his face that dragged on the wrinkles of his eyes and forehead. The illusions stiffness, its still and unsettling nature had been greatly appreciated by Maxwell when he had been the one utilizing it, but shrouded on another and so blatantly shoved into his face it seemed so much more unnerving. Especially on an expressive man such as Wilson, and while his face was not quite uncanny valley the rigid build was enough to offset the rest of him.

With the shadow cloaking him, dressed as a suit, flickers of flaming claws drifting from his back and shoulders, hair spiked and rippling with oily sheen and face surprisingly clean shaven, Wilson looked as different from the man he once was as a fork was to a knife.

Stocky square sturdiness traded for sharp triangular edges, gaping and serrated.

His personality didn't seem as shifted, though the edge was there, a hint of a threat deeply hidden under slick, professional words.

“I had thought that, having made this world generous and full of gifts, that you would have been at ease by now. I know that drivel such as surviving would come naturally to one who has seen it all, yet…”

The man walked close, hands behind his back, unblinking pitch black gaze locked onto his own watery, bloodshot eyes, and Maxwell couldn't help but lean back and away from the shorter man. The Shadow Kings very presence could be overwhelming, and he was only just barely feeling the flickering edges of it all.

“Yet you…” Wilson looked away suddenly, face dropping all semblance of confident control and falling back into something familiar, something distressed and lost, “...waste what I give freely.”

The silence between them was thick, tense, and his own nervous energy seeped through, regret at ever getting himself out of the tent today setting in. Of all the days to have the energy, to feel motivated enough, it had to be the day Wilson felt confident enough to appear before him.

Maxwell cleared his throat, uncomfortable as the Shadow King looked on into the distance and was so clearly falling into swirling, lost thought. The Throne did that.

Made one become lost, that is. 

“Survival tactics are not a one size fits all, I do believe.”

Maxwell tried to keep his voice steady, a lack of emotion ringing through them, but it wasn't all that hard. Even with the nervous anxiety rippling through his chest due to Wilson's very presence, it didn't take much to speak as if one felt nothing at all.

After all, wasn't that the truth?

Wilson's head snapped back to him, blackened shadow eyes wide as he looked him up and down, his very shadow squirming in the prairie grass and failing to hide whatever inner debate he was having, shadowy claws dragging furrows into the dusty earth as he looked almost uncertainty at Maxwell. The obvious confused distress, especially on a King, was highly unnerving to Maxwell and his face hardened with discomfort. No being with that much power should ever look so helpless.

“That may be true,” and Wilsons voice withered, looking away for just a moment more before targeting back onto him, stiff body not at all showing the shiver and weakness that threaded in his very words, “Yet no one can survive on a schedule of berries and sleep, not even you.”

Maxwell huffed, now feeling the tinges of irritation in the back of his mind, of the sudden odd twist in his gut at the reminder. He hasn't been eating all that well.

“I would think that, the older one gets, the more sleep they require.”

“You've slept days away,” shot back Wilson, suddenly taking a few steps and glaring up at him, a switch of harshness in his voice and posture, almost as if the calm facade had just been a dam fit to burst, “Not to mention the times you've retired and not slept a wink, only taking to stare at the ceiling and wallow! And that does not excuse your poor effort to keep yourself well fed!”

Wilson was practically hissing, red faced and claws curled into tight fists, looking all the angrier with each passing moment.

“You admit to watching me so closely?”

Wilson didn't even take a moment to look ashamed, just shaking his head with shut eyes for a moment before pushing forward, the taller man stumbling a few steps back at the advance. The shadow on the ground clawed the dirt, lengthened behind the Shadow King, and the world flickered as the presence of royalty grew stronger, heavier.

“As if you did not do the same! Stop trying to redirect me!”

He stuck a claw out, pointing at Maxwell's chest and jabbing at him, not quite touching him but almost.

“I give you all this, I'd give you so much more, and what do you do with it all? What exactly, I ask, as you proceed to hide in your tent and starve yourself to oblivion!”

Sharp teeth bared at him, a twisted half frown half smile, and it took a moment to realize that Wilson was shaking.

Maxwell was silent, stiff frown dipping on his face, and wondered if the answer was just that hard for the King to understand that he would have to ask a _pawn_ for clarification.

“And what does that matter to you, Higgsbury? I am not the only one stranded out here.”

The shadow on the ground raged, got more violent and was just as silent as ever as it ripped the ground apart, and Maxwell wondered if this visit was really just a way to bring about his death, not whatever pleasantries the new King seemed to be trying to engage in. Wilson, the opposite of his shadow in stiff posture, the ever so slight tremble to his shoulders just visible enough, hissed, bared his teeth as he glared up at Maxwell.

“They take what I give and _appreciate_ ,” he strained the word, taking another step forward as Maxwell took another step back, “every day they have survived. Every single one of them has accepted my ruling and _thrived_.”

He pushed forward, and Maxwell almost tripped up on the tall grass as he stumbled back, the heady aura of the King only getting heavier with each passing moment. Shadowy shapes darted in the corners of his vision, faded white eyes glancing at him as the shadows watched from the sidelines, but he resolutely ignored them in favor of keeping an eye on the man in front of him. The threat was in the King, not half formed shadows.

Those may be dangerous later, but not yet.

“Every single one.”

Suddenly Wilsons hand snapped out, grabbed Maxwell by the collar and dragged him down, claws tightly gripped in his worn suit and tie as he yanked them face to face, eye to eye. Needless to say, Maxwell's face dropped from the stiff emotionless act quickly enough against the bared anger that thrummed under the Shadow Kings own face, discomfort and surprise and a flash of fear, genuine fear as the shadows grew a little more solid and real in the wavering, colorless world around him.

And then that was shrouded away, the Kings blackened eyes darting as he watched the former King hide whatever had been his reaction behind a snarled scowl, and they both matched in sudden irrational anger, in bared teeth and twisted expression.

“Except you.”

Wilson practically snarled the words out, shadows at his back flaring and snapping at the wind, his own shadow upon the ground long and stretched and distorted, ripping the ground apart with raging claws and gaping maws. The former King glared, said nothing, bent forward at an odd angle and unwilling to back down from whatever this was, from whatever Wilson was trying to accomplish.

For a few moments they stayed that way, wills pushed against each other and standing their ground against whatever the other wanted, the shadows around them watching intently as the sun started to set, dusk growing each shadowy being longer and taller and more and more stronger.

“You are so stubborn.”

There was an edge to Wilson's hissing whisper, something that almost broke and wavered at the edges, and with that he let go of Maxwell's suit and swung around, away in one smooth movement. Maxwell almost fell over, stumbling to get his balance as he straightened up, back already aching from his posture and feeling a little light headed with the shift, wavering for a moment as he righted himself.

Wilson stood still, stiff with claws fisted at his sides, staring out into the plains as his shoulders trembled, as the shadow at his feet slowly shrunk down at his gaze, to pull back into a more manageable humanoid shape. Maxwell brushed off his suit, almost nervously, adjusting his crumbled up collar and tie as best as he could, ignoring the abominable metaphorical elephant in the room between them for a few moments before he got his nerve back.

“...Why put so much effort in the comfort of one measly pawn?” His own voice was as unyielding and walled off as usual, clearing his throat and turning to the side, staring off into the tall grass. “I find this level of interest a little...off putting. A King does not play favorites.”

He didn't get to see Wilson's reaction, could almost guess at the sudden flash of anger and possible agitation, expected some sort of lashing back, but instead all he heard was a heavy sigh.

“You are the only one who is unhappy.”

Maxwell glanced over to the King, a little surprised at the sudden shift in tone, at the blunt resignation and tiredness laced through Wilson's voice.

“With everything I have done to change this place, with everyone who is trapped here and who has to suffer here, who has now found a way of life here, out of everything, you find no comfort whatsoever.”

The shadows grew longer as the sky darkened, bright colors of the sunset splashing over the sky, and Maxwell eyed one particularly interested shadow as it crawled closer, slithering its tail through the yellowed grass as it turned its head up to watch him.

“And I wish to know why. What have I missed that I cannot remedy and bring ease to my own kingdom?”

The grass cracked and bent under slow footsteps, and Wilson swung himself around in front of the former King, to face him, face drawn tight into a frown as he surveyed him with pitch black eyes.

“I find no pleasure in ruling a kingdom that is not unified, that goes about unhappily.”

“A King should not be distracting himself with one pawns problems.”

His voice was much harsher, more tense than the Shadow Kings, and he found it hard to look upon the new ruler now, finally turning his gaze away.

“In fact, a King should not be ignoring the game just to appease the wants of his pieces.”

Wilson was silent for a moment, the shadow Maxwell was frowning at staring up at him with blind milk eyes, much too solidified to be comfortable. The echoed image of the world around him was wavering, his own willpower healing after the shadow onslaught and building the colors back into normalcy, but ever so slowly. The shadows had life and strength now, but would not attack him while the King was about. They'd wait their turn.

“And why, may I ask,” Wilsons voice dropped, “do you think I am not? There are more moves to this board than you seem to think, and I have taken the time to explore each strategy.”

Maxwell's frown deepened. He wouldn't admit the confusion, his own knowledge now being tested with whatever the Shadow King was sharing, but who was to say he wasn't being lied to?

Either way, eventually there would be a misstep and the hounds and giants and all manner of new monstrosities would be reintroduced back into the world. No one else has ever had the Throne for as long as him, and no one else has ever lasted Their pressure as long as himself. Wilson was no different.

Even with these new...developments, the obvious tampering of his own creations, the man could not possibly have the willpower to last for too long.

It was just a matter of time.

“Who is to say, William,” the former Kings flinch was almost painful, a jerk back and shocked glare as his posture turned defensive, shoulders drawn up as the name fell so carelessly from the Shadow Kings lips, “that the game is just about the outsiders, or the King himself?”

_“Where did you get that name!?”_

Maxwell was tensed up, just about ready to snatch up one of the staffs in his bag, just about ready to damn any semblance of civility between them, voice a hoarse whisper as his face turned into a harsh snarl.

He already knew the answer to that, already knew, and he absolutely hated the man for even knowing such things.

Thankfully his demand was ignored, Wilsons pitch blackened eyes trained on his own, unwavering, and the shadows dithering around them suddenly pulled back, slithering away as quickly as possible.

“In fact, after much thought on my part, the expandability of each piece is not nearly as infinite as one would think. As a King, I take the responsibility of taking care of my subjects, every single one of them, and thus I then can use each when they are needed and not risk their loss.”

He was still shaken from the use of that name, heart thudding in his chest at the mix of thoughts and emotions it had caused, and anger bled through enough at the realization that Wilson _knew_ the names power and _knew_ it would unbalance him, and he straightened his back, face snarled at the shorter man. 

Wilson had no right to that.

The Throne kept its secrets, and he had expected it to keep its former rulers' secrets as well, keep the connection to a minimum and allow Their own will to enact as fully and powerfully as possible on helpless puppets.

Seems he had been wrong assuming such things.

He barely heard what was said, barely acknowledged it, still twisted with rage as his gut turned and memories surfaced that he had no want to surface, thoughts and ideas and faces half remembered, and he stood before the Shadow King and decided that he had enough.

The man could come down and bother him as much as he wants, he could start as many fights as he wants, hell, Wilson could kill him as many times as he wants, Maxwell would understand, he's done it enough times to understand, but buried secrets meant for the _Throne_ and meant to _fade_ away, bringing them up in an offhand comment to press some worthless point he had no interest in hearing, bringing them up so _carelessly_ ; Maxwell wanted nothing to do with such remembrances. 

The past was done and over with; he needed no reminder.

“Higgsbury.” he hadn't interrupted like he had wanted to, a space open with whatever the man had been about to say, but it didn't matter. He wanted this little interaction of theirs to be over and done with now.

He'd take the shadows and the dark of night over such careless throwing around of a past he wanted to be forgotten and done away with. At least then he'd be dead and _not_ be dealing with any left over regrets.

“What reason did you come to see me besides to torment me? A King has more important things to attend to but I am assured that you have no such interest in anything besides making my day even less pleasant than it already is.”

The Shadow King tilted his head, mouth a thin line as silence fell, the sun continuing its slow descent down to the horizon.

The silence stretched, enough to start making him nervous, the irritation and anger still low burning embers masked with an indifference he was having a hard time keeping a hold of, and Maxwell shifted his weight as he attempted to hold the Kings stare, eyes narrowed and face pulled into a dark scowl.

The former scientist should by now have realized that he had no interest whatsoever in him and his rules dealings. The Throne would eventually be passed along and Wilsons time would be forgotten as quickly as possible; Maxwell saw no use in taking part of this man's “kingdom” and wanted nothing to do with it.

He'd do what every other survivor did out here when not traveling between planes, chasing nightmares and false promises, and it did not even matter if he did well or not. Dying was an inconvenience, has always been and always will be, and his less than stellar attempts at camp making were on part due to the rather hopelessness of it all, how utterly pointless it was. 

New Kings wiped worlds if they so wished, started from the beginning, and a part of him had somewhat hoped that was what Wilson would do upon the seat of godlike power, even under Their influence. Erase everything, start from the bottom, get rid of former creations and throw older puppets to the void while seeking newer, more malleable targets outside the realm.

Death was impossible, but he himself has completely eliminated puppets before. For a while there, he had been seriously considering whether the mine was worth the energy anymore and if the utter consumption of soul and being of the fool was worth more than the pieces of himself that he'd leave behind every death and every revival. 

In the end, however, the former King had decided to let bygones be bygones and watched as Wilson stumbled his way through guards and prison wardens only to watch the only person he's seen in who knows how long be dragged back to the outer levels and lost to the shifting isles. Not quite as satisfying as integrating the essence of someone into the shifting and fluctuating realm of Them, but seeing the scientist utter despair afterwards was exhilarating and somewhat worth it.


End file.
